


Like a Lighthouse, Call Me Home

by arthureameslove



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beholding! Jon, Happy Ending, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Martin and Jon get the love they deserve, Martin was never part of the og gang, Martin will NOT end up with Lukas in the end, Peter Lukas gets to him first, just avatars falling in love, the non-con tag is for Peter Lukas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: After the events of the Unknowing, Jon is furious to find Peter Lukas running the Institute, and even more so to find Lukas has sent one of his own to work down in the archives. But upon meeting Martin Blackwood, Jon finds himself drawn to him, against his better judgement. Blackwood's allegiances lie with Lukas, after all. Or so he thinks.But when Blackwood offers a deal--mutually beneficial and far too good to be true, Jon accepts.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 151
Kudos: 409





	1. Chapter 1

Jon was aware, amorphously, of the existence of Peter Lukas. He knew the Lukas family were the Institute’s primary patrons and connected to the Lonely. He’d read more than enough statements and listened to enough of Elias’ quips about funding to understand that much. Peter Lukas himself, however, was notoriously elusive. Tim had mentioned seeing him around once or twice, especially recently, but with the threat of the Unknowing hanging over all of their heads, Jon hadn’t stopped to think about why it might have been that Lukas seemed to be more and more of a presence at the Institute. 

Jon gave it very little thought at all, at first, busy with consuming as many statements of The Stranger as he could. He was so absorbed by the need to work those days, the beginnings of actual _hunger pangs_ lancing through him if he went too long between reading statements, that the line between too little and too much grew...blurry. He would go through statements in a frenzy, only to find himself utterly exhausted when he had a second to breathe and think beyond the buzz of needing to know and understand. It was a difficult line to walk. 

It didn’t help that he couldn’t stand being out of the Institute for long these days. And it didn’t help that whenever he paused from the statements or took a break, he’d suddenly be cripplingly aware of Tim’s simmering anger and hatred, Basira’s discontent, or Melanie’s almost painful rage. The knowledge accosted him even though he wanted nothing more than to be oblivious to it, even though he couldn’t do _anything_ to fix it. What he could do instead, though, was focus his energy on trying to stop the world from ending. 

If he buried himself in work, he could forget the rest. Forget that he hadn’t slept quite right in weeks. Forget worry and terror that twisted at his stomach constantly. Forget the way they all looked at him, now. Forget what he was becoming. 

So he buried himself in statements and other people’s fear until his body forced him back up for air.

It was on one of those days that Jon found himself outside the Institute, hanging around one of the fire exits near the parking lot, desperately trying to light the cigarette hanging from his lips. He failed to do so for at least a minute, his thumb ineffectually hitting the sparkwheel because his hands were shaking too badly, the image of Tim’s cold stare as he’d passed by seared into his mind. He gave up on the lighter, letting his head fall back against the side of the building, and for the first time noticed the car with its engine revving lowly, parked near the Institute’s entrance, and the voices that drifted from it. 

The car itself was a gaudy thing, teal and vintage, stretched out with an open top. Jon was quite the opposite of a car person, and--well, before he could simply know anything at will--wouldn’t have been able name what kind of car it was if you’d put a gun to his head. But even he could tell this car was _expensive._

Elias was speaking to the man in the driver’s seat, looking irritated where the man in the car merely looked mildly amused. The man looked like his car, and Jon Knew the instant he saw him that this was Peter Lukas. When he spoke, Jon could see his teeth gleam even as far as he was, bleached bright white and blinding. He had salt and pepper hair, a perfectly trimmed beard, and wore a dark blue turtleneck that looked like it had cost more than Jon made in a week. Jon could see the man’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing large, muscled forearms, because one of the man’s arms was draped over the shoulders of the car’s other occupant. 

Something about the sight of the other man had Jon’s breath hitching in his chest. He had a mess of curled sun bleached hair that might have once been auburn and the lightest splash of freckles across his nose like constellations. Even as Elias and Peter conversed next to him, he showed no interest at all in the conversation, his gaze, hidden by rounded, tinted sunglasses, directed through the windshield at nothing in particular. Lukas’ fingers moved against his shoulder, a brushing, circling motion, but the other man was still in his hold, as if he were utterly indifferent to Lukas’ presence. 

Like Lukas, he was dripped in wealth, from the sunglasses to the soft, perfectly fitted green jumper--cashmere, his mind helpfully supplied, 750 pound--but unlike on Lukas, it didn’t look quite right. Perhaps that was why Jon’s gaze was caught on him, why he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. Because he didn’t _look_ like he should be in that car, dressed like that. Jon stared at the soft curve of his cheek, the smattering of freckles, and plush, fullness of his mouth, flat and emotionless, and thought he would look more at home in frumpy, oversized jumpers. And, suddenly, Jon Knew with certainty that, once, the other man _had,_ a long time ago. 

Jon swallowed hard when the other man caught sight of him, looking from the corner of his sunglasses so Jon could just catch his eye. For a moment, they looked grey and cloudy--in their entirety, not just the irises but the _whole_ of his eyes--like cataracts that had spread too far, but then the man blinked, once, and his eyes were a normal, pale blue. Perhaps years ago, Jon would have dismissed what he’d seen as a trick of the light. But he knew better than that now. 

The man turned his head towards Jon, tilting his sunglasses down on his nose to look over at him curiously. Jon should have looked away then. It would have been the polite thing to do, he knew, but he had never been very good with social niceties even when he was fully human. So, when the other man’s mouth twitched upward at the corners, Jon saw it. 

Then, the man took a breath, a visible one that heaved his chest, and Jon felt…

He felt something drawn up out of him, felt that ache in his stomach subside and a weight lift from his shoulders at the same moment, and the feeling of warmth and relief was so sudden and unexpected that his legs wobbled a bit. Despite the shock, Jon still hadn’t looked away, and he saw, when the other man exhaled, smoke left his mouth and his nose, streaming out like he’d just taken a drag of a cigarette. Or...no, it wasn’t smoke. It was _fog._ A fog that curled around the air in front of him, amassing in front of his face and masking it from view, but not before Jon saw another flash of a smile, this one wider with a hint of blunt, white teeth. 

When the fog cleared, the man was again looking off through the windshield like he was bored, mouth a flat line, even as Peter Lukas turned to speak to him. Elias had disappeared, and Jon wondered how long his attention had been caught by that man in the car. Wondered how that constant ache in him had suddenly numbed, making him feel lighter than he had in years.

Jon watched as Lukas cupped the man’s cheek with a broad hand, turning the man’s head towards him. He watched as Lukas leaned closer, saying something Jon couldn’t hear, and watched as Lukas’ fingers drifted over the shell of an ear and into the soft looking curls of the man’s hair. He didn’t know why that image caught in his mind, like a record skipping. Didn’t know why his chest felt, suddenly, hot, too tight. 

“Need a light?” 

Jon whirled around to see Elias standing behind him, his hand holding the exit door open as the other held out a lighter. Jon stared at him, silent, noting the gleam in his eye that told him Elias had known he’d seen the whole thing, and that he was just waiting for Jon to ask about it. At the thought, Jon felt heavier again, that feeling of relief dissipating like smoke. 

“I don’t, actually,” he replied, his voice flat. He pointedly dropped the unused cigarette he’d been holding and brushed past Elias back inside, ignoring the feeling of eyes on his back. 

* * *

He tried to forget about what he’d felt outside, the feeling that the man in the car had brought about, by delving into the pile of statements on his desk. He tried to forget about the man in the car himself, with his freckles and his hidden smile. 

He couldn’t. He didn’t really forget things anymore.

* * *

The Unknowing unraveled him. In the end, it was Tim who saved the world, by blowing himself to high heaven. It hurt that Jon knew that was the only thing he’d been living for for the past few months anyway. 

It had hurt to be blown to bits. 

The nightmares, surprisingly, didn’t hurt. He was so numb to the fear of them by now that they were almost comforting in their familiarity.

What hurt most, though, was the knowledge that all of Elias’ encouragements and all Jon’a work reading statement after statement had not been to prepare him to survive the Unknowing. It hadn’t been for the Unknowing at all. Elias had been preparing him to Become.

And when he woke up, he was newly made. Monstrous through and through. 

* * *

Returning to the Institute was both jarring and familiar all at once. Its walls soothed him, the statements inside hummed for him. But it was so quiet, even more so than before, when they all waited with baited breath for the moment they’d leave for Yarmouth. With Tim’s absence the quiet was pervasive. A living thing that sucked the air out of every room. 

There were small victories, though, Basira told him. Melanie’s plan had worked to convict Elias, but in doing so, the Institute was out under new management. Under the management of Peter Lukas, who was evidently still utterly elusive to the point where none of them had seen him in the months he’d taken up office.

It was too quiet. Melanie was so steeped in frustrated fury that even looking at her gave Jon an instant headache from the sheer force of it, and Basira--

Talking to Basira was painful because any camaraderie they might have forged months ago was gone in the wake of what he was now. Basira looked at him flatly, cold and wary, even though she was the only one of the two that still talked to him at all, anymore. 

He didn’t understand how all the other avatars he’d met had seemed so unaffected by it all. Because all Jon could see and all he could See was the scorn and distrust and _fear_ in the faces of those he thought he could call friends. Even Georgie--kind, patient, knowing Georgie--had decided she’d wanted nothing more to do with him. 

He couldn’t even begrudge her that. 

If Jon could go back to his younger self, tell himself to quit and get out while he still could, he would do it in a heartbeat.

He understood. But even though he Knew why, it still stung, still felt like someone was squeezing his heart until it bled. So, most days, he hid away in his office, losing himself in statements until he fell asleep at his desk, then repeated the process again. It was easier for everyone that way. 

There was one thing he didn’t understand, though. Melanie was pointedly _not_ working, and Basira, while she got through some statements for him, spent most of her time reading. And yet--

His statement piles were getting smaller. It seemed like every time he got up to use the bathroom, or went to the breakroom to make coffee, there would be a statement or two missing from his desk. But when he checked the logged, recorded statements, the correct number was accounted for. 

It had occurred to Jon that he could simply try to Know who was pilfering from his desk and recording in secret. But he hadn’t yet worked out how to _actively_ Know things. The information that popped into his head was always of the kind he didn’t ask for, and while it was maddening to have so little control over it, the last time he’d tried to open that figurative door in his head, he’d blacked out from the sheer wave of knowledge that came through. He wasn’t eager to try it again. 

Jon confronted Basira about it a week after he’d first noticed, when, infuriatingly, the culprit had swiped the statement Jon was just about to get started on. 

“Have you been taking statements off my desk?” 

Basira looked up at him, nonplussed, from the book she was reading. Her boots were propped up on the desk that used to be Sasha’s, and seeing it made Jon angry and devastated and tired all at once. 

“No. Why?”

“Because,” he grit out, “someone’s been taking _statements_ off my _desk_.”

Basira’s mouth flattened out. “So you’re mad because someone’s been stealing food off your plate?”

Jon stiffened, and tried to ignore just how much that stung. “I--just, if you see Melanie--”

“It wasn’t her. She hasn’t been in today.” Basira paused, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Actually, it might be that liaison guy.”

Jon looked at her blankly. “Who?”

“You know, that guy Lukas hired? Kind of acting as the shadow boss because Lukas won’t deign to show his face?” Basira looked up at him again, and seeing his dumbfounded expression, sighed. “Really, Jon? You’ve been back almost two weeks, now.”

“I--you never mentioned a new hire!” Jon hissed. “He’s with _Lukas?_ ”

“Yeah,” Basira shrugged. “And, like him, doesn’t seem to show his face much. He’s drifted in now and again to ask where certain statements are located, but other than that it seems like he just keeps to himself.”

Jon stared at her, his mind processing it all. Not only was Peter Lukas invading _his_ Archive, vanishing _his_ people, but he’d also posted a stranger down here with them? Someone who was working with Lukas to do God knew what--

“Where is he?” Jon asked, and he didn’t notice the angry compulsion that had flooded his voice until the question left his mouth. 

“Don’t know,” Basira answered immediately, her eyes glazing over slightly. Jon felt sick at the sight. “He just comes in whenever he needs a statement and disappears when I look away. Could be shacking up anywhere.” Basira stopped speaking, her face twisting suddenly in anger. “I told you not to do that to me.”

Jon knew exactly what she felt in that moment, could feel the jumble of fear-anger-betrayal-fear- _fear-_ **_fear,_ **and the knowledge felt like a punch to the stomach. “I’m sorry,” Jon whispered, taking a step back. 

He watched the tick of Basira’s jaw as she ground her teeth. “Jon. Do me a favor, yeah? Get out of my sight for a while.”

So he did. He retreated, hating the power that thrummed in his skin, hating that it always felt better--felt _fuller_ \--to hear information that was _taken_ rather than given freely. He sat in his office for a while, simply staring at the space where the statement had been, as his anger at himself, at Elias, at Lukas and this stranger in the Archives, grew in his chest like a monster in its own right. 

It was the stranger that caught in his mind, this elusive right hand to Peter Lukas. He hadn’t tried to Know anything specific in a while, and well, he was feeling suitably self-destructive in the moment. So, he thought very hard about the alien presence in his Archive, sought to know who didn’t belong and where they were. 

The information leaked through like fog, slowly curling through his mind until he could feel them. They were in the old document storage room. 

Jon flew out of his office and headed there, fuming. When he reached the door, he could see slight wisps of fog curling out from under it, and the door knob was so cold it almost burned. Objectively, he knew bursting into a room without knocking was very rude. He didn't particularly care in the moment though, so that was exactly what he did. 

He should have expected who would be sitting at the desk in that room, but he hadn’t taken the time to connect the dots. 

The room was freezing when he entered, fog clouding the edges like a blurred painting. The man at the desk looked up at his entrance, a tape recorder running at his elbow, and Jon’s missing statement in front of him. All of Jon’s bluster and anger disappeared the moment he took in the man’s face. It was the man from the car, all those months ago. Even so long after, the memory of that day, that chance encounter, was fresh in his mind. 

The man leaned back in his chair, regarding him with those untouchable, pale eyes. He looked unchanged from the man in Jon’s memory. There was the smattering of freckles that Jon remembered, the curve of his cheeks, the plush mouth. And, again, he wore clothes that didn’t look like they quite suited him. A spotless, tan coat over a blue dress shirt, open at the collar. Jon found his eyes drawn to the column of his throat, but his eyes quickly flicked back up when the man’s mouth curved into something like the smile he’d seen in the car, obscured by mist. “Oh,” the man said, tilting his head and looking Jon up and down. There was something of the fog in the way he spoke, chilled and lofty, as if he couldn’t care if Jon answered or not. “You must be lost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I hope you're intrigued by the premise! I know Lonely!Martin seems immediately like a bad thing, but I wanted to explore the concept. Avatars need love too ok. 
> 
> Just a warning, this fic does include an abusive, very one-sided relationship (not Jon and Martin). While it will not feature heavily, as Jon and Martin are the main pairing, it does exist in the story. Please do not read if you might find that content triggering! Stay safe, everyone. <3


	2. Chapter 2

_“You must be lost.”_

The words rang in Jon’s head, bouncing around the inside of his skull. He knew what the man sounded like now. His voice was higher pitched than Jon had imagined, but Jon found it actually suited him. He liked the way the smile lilted his words up. As if trying to be helpful, The Eye shoved information on audible-affective cues into his head. Jon wished he could physically wave the new knowledge away like a fly. 

“I’m not,” he found himself answering, stupidly. 

The man looked briefly surprised at his response, but then his smile widened and Jon’s breath caught at the sight. Anything else he would have said was lost in the maelstrom of Jon’s head. He had a sudden urge to Know exactly what every kind of variation of that smile looked like and how it could be brought about. 

“Well,” the other man said, tilting his head, “in that case, what can I do for you, Mr. Sims?”

The question made Jon remember why he was actually there. He scowled. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr…?”

“Blackwood,” the man answered, nonplussed by Jon’s shift in attitude, still seeming politely cheery and professionally distant. “Martin Blackwood. Call me Martin.”

Martin. The name suited the roundness of his face, the curve of his mouth, but didn’t match the pale tint of his eyes. “Right,” Jon said, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Have you been taking statements from my office?”

“Yes,” Martin answered easily. 

“Wha—I, um.” Jon blinked. He has been expecting a denial, so the words that next came out of his mouth were an ungraceful, “Can you _not_ do that?”

Again, Martin’s mouth quirked up at the corner and Jon unwittingly found himself tracking the motion. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Sims. Those are statements that Peter has taken a particular interest in. And I answer to him, not to you.”

Jon’s mood instantly soured, both at the reminder that Lukas was prowling around his Archives for his own purposes and that the man in front of him was in league with him. That, and because of the way his thoughts caught on Lukas’ name in Martin’s mouth, easy and familiar. “Of course,” he grit out. “Your allegiance is with the man who has already vanished two of my people.”

“Yes,” Martin said, easy and honest. There was no real expression of remorse on his face. Only a mask of bland politeness, but Jon thought he saw something steely in Martin’s eyes. “And if it weren’t for me, it would have been a lot more.”

Jon stared at him, assessing, running over the statement in his mind and finding that it rang with truth.

Martin sighed. “Look. I have been recording statements for the Archive for the months when you were…away,” he said, looking at Jon knowingly. “But since you’re back now, if you’d prefer not to have my help with the bulk of recording, I understand. I’d still need to collect some statements for Peter, but I technically don’t even need to record them, if you’d rather do so. I just…need to read them.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at him. “So you’d take them, read them, and then give them back to be recorded?”

“If you like,” Martin replied. Then, in what Jon assumed was a show of good faith, he picked up the statement in front of him and held it out. “I’m done with this one, if you’d like it back.”

Surprised, Jon reached out and took it, shivering when he just barely brushed Martin’s fingers. They were cold. That was why, he told himself. 

Jon glanced over the pages, confirming that it was indeed the statement that had been snatched from his desk. “Thank you,” he murmured distantly. “And the others? From earlier in the week?”

“Ah,” Martin said. Something in his tone had Jon’s head snapping up to look at him. Tidbits of information popped in Jon’s head like popcorn. The temperature in the room had dropped suddenly by a degree and a half. Martin’s heart beat had increased to 83 beats per minute, not quite an abnormal reading but higher than his resting rate had been (72 BPM). Martin’s mouth had taken on a blandly polite smile that decidedly did not reach his eyes. “I’m afraid Peter has those at the moment. I could ask him for them back. If you’d like.”

Jon should have said yes. Martin was offering after all. But there was something about the sudden tension in his shoulders that Jon found he didn’t like at all. “Why is he only interested in particular statements?” Jon asked instead. 

Martin merely looked at him for a moment, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Peter’s interested in a potential fifteenth fear. The Extinction. He’s agreed to take over the Institute while Bouchard is...indisposed, on the promise that he can look through whatever statements he likes, particularly those featuring The Extinction.”

Jon was rather taken aback by the sheer honesty in everything that Martin had said. “And Lukas is okay with you sharing that information?”

“He didn’t ask me to keep it a secret,” Martin shot back coolly. “So I suppose so.”

Jon stared mutely. Martin looked back, nonplussed. The corner of his mouth again twitched and Jon’s eyes were caught by the movement. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sims?” Martin asked, a curl of amusement in his tone like the roiling fog in the room. 

Jon shook himself out of his stupor. “No. No, just. If you could...get those statements back to me,” he said, then remembering Martin’s strange reaction, added, “whenever you can.”

The temperature in the room remained constant, and so did Martin’s heart beat as he stared at Jon. “Right,” he said, and nothing more. His voice wasn’t quite what Jon would call cold, but it was a far cry from warm.

Then, there was nothing left but for Jon to leave. His chest felt tight with...something, a feeling he refused to label as disappointment. He turned to the door, readying himself for Basira’s distrust and Melanie’s fury and the ache of his empty office. He could lose himself in work like before, he told himself. It would be harder now, with the constant flashes of knowledge that bombarded him--tidbits of what those around him were thinking and feeling--but not impossible. 

It was hard not to notice the sharp contrast of this room, where he couldn’t see or hear anything from Martin’s head through the thick cloud of fog. A welcome change. Quiet, at last.

Jon’s stomach twisted at the thought of making the walk back across the bullpen. He Knew Basira was still there, still trying to read over the rush of anger in her head. The thought of her glaring at him, silent and furious and hurt made his stomach turn. 

Still, he reached for the doorknob. There was nothing for it. He couldn’t avoid it eventually. 

But then he felt it. That anxious, awful twist in his stomach and the tightness of his chest lifted away as if it were never there at all. 

Jon whirled around in time to see the last curl of fog leave Martin’s parted mouth. _“What are you doing?”_ he demanded, compulsion blanketing the words.

“Taking from that aching pit of loneliness in your chest,” Martin answered, pupils blown wilder than they had been before. He blinked, compulsion fading, head tilting and smile growing. “Oh, that’s very interesting.”

Jon had stumbled at his answer, face creasing in confusion. Was this some sort of ploy? _“Why?”_

Martin’s smile was soft and lovely and dangerous. “Because I want it,” he said slowly, “and you don’t.”

Jon’s heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears (110 BPM, his mind helpfully supplied, and the temperature of his skin was rising at an approximate rate of .05 degrees per minute). That couldn’t have been it. Couldn’t have. Jon was unused to people wanting no more than he was willing to give. “You have no idea what I want,” he heard himself say.

Martin tilted his head, resting it on the palm of his hand, brow furrowing. He stared, blue eyes clear and bright and almost... _concerned,_ and Jon felt exposed. He wondered if this was what he made other people feel, so utterly and entirely seen it made his chest tighten in panic. 

Martin opened his mouth to say something, lips parting and a hint of straight, white teeth flashing, and Jon could not stop _looking_. “I’m...sorry if I upset you. I thought--”

“I don’t care,” Jon snarled at him. “Don’t do it again.”

Martin blinked at him, straightening in his chair. His broad hand dropped from his chin and rested on his arm. One of his sun bleached curls brushed just over his left eye. His mouth pursed, the furrow in his brow deepened. Jon couldn’t stop cataloguing any of it, couldn’t ignore how _good_ the lightness of his chest had made him feel, and it--

It scared him. 

He fled the room before he could hear Martin’s response, if he gave any at all.

* * *

The rest of the week was agonizing. Basira refused to speak to him, though he could still hear the simmering distrust in her head like she was projecting it at him. Melanie only came in periodically to avoid getting sick from the distance from the institute, and when she spoke to Jon it was clipped, devoid of any warmth. 

He supposed it made sense. He practically _was_ the institute at this point, a manifestation of the force that tied her there. 

Burying himself in work wasn’t enough anymore, because no matter what he did, he could feel that tight weight of worry and sadness and loneliness start to build up in his chest again. He hated being so _aware_ of it now. Jon now knew what it felt like to be without it and it felt like a curse. 

And yet, he couldn’t do anything about it. It was a sharp, painful reminder that he had literally no one. 

Even worse, the statements that had gone missing began to reappear. They piled onto his desk in the minutes when he went to the break room, or for a smoke break, or even, once, when he ducked under his desk, cursing, to grab a pen that had slipped from his fingers. Always one at a damn time. It was like they were brought by a particularly petulant ghost. 

Jon couldn’t stop thinking about him, and it was driving him mad. The ache in his chest got worse, and Jon couldn’t stop thinking about those blown pupils and that lovely, dangerous smile.

* * *

He caved at the end of the week, letting himself into Martin’s office in the same manner as before, belatedly realizing he probably should have knocked. 

Martin looked up at his entry, a book open in his broad hands. The collar of his blue button down was askew, one side tucked under the warm brown knit sweater, and the other side flipped up, nearly brushing against the underside of his jaw. The room was three degrees colder than when Jon had last been in, and Martin’s brief, assessing stare was just as welcoming. 

The other man returned his attention to his book—Keats, Jon knew, with a kind of resigned disappointment. “Mr. Sims," he said, blandly. "Come to complain again?”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, found he couldn’t voice exactly _why_ he’d decided to come back, and closed it. There had just been such a jumble of uselessness and loneliness and damned curiosity building up in him the whole week, and he just—he _wanted—_

He wanted it to stop, and he didn’t exactly care how at this point. But he couldn’t _say_ that. 

“I had thought I was abiding by the rules you established,” Martin continued distantly, flipping a page. He didn’t look up again. “So, what is it this time?”

Jon felt his face burn, but couldn’t find it in himself to answer. Pathetic, this was absolutely pathetic. What had he been thinking?

Martin finally looked up at him. He frowned, closing the book. Jon watched his hands skirt over the desk as he leaned forward. Martin narrowed his eyes and they clouded over as he stared, and he seemed to see _something_ because when he blinked and his eyes cleared, his brow furrowed and his mouth pursed. “Christ, what have you done to yourself? It’s been a _week_.”

Jon felt his face flame even more, shame blooming like a weed in his stomach. He fought the urge to snap that perhaps that awful ache in him wouldn’t have gotten so bad if he wasn’t so _aware_ of it now. 

Martin was still looking, with an expression on his face that was far too soft and concerned on an avatar of the Lonely, and Jon didn’t know what to do. 

Christ, Martin was lovely, and what he had proposed sounded far too good to be true, and he didn’t know what to _do_.

“...Jon,” Martin began tentatively, but the sound of his name, curling soft and gentle out of that mouth like caressing fog was too much.

“Look, I—it doesn't matter why I came. I—I should go,” Jon choked out, voice strangled.

He turned to go, but heard Martin stand up from his chair and say, “Jon. Wait.”

Jon paused, heart in his throat. He heard footsteps coming closer. Martin paused a few feet away. Jon could feel the fog in the room shift and arch as if it wanted to be near him. “Why did you do it?” Jon murmured, not quite looking at him. He had still half a mind to flee again.

“I told you why,” Martin answered softly. He simply looked for a moment, and in the quiet Jon could hear his steady breathing. “But you don’t believe me,” he landed on.

Jon eyed him, wary, his heart beating too fast in his chest. Martin was taller than him, broader too, and looked down at him with that disarming expression on his face. “You can look, if you want,” Martin said.

Jon blinked at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

Martin gestured vaguely to his head, a small smile quirking. “Beholding, right? You can look. Assure yourself I’m not lying or trying to trick you. So long as you don’t look too far.”

Jon stared at him in disbelief. He had never thought anyone would just...offer that. Everyone else had been so violently opposed to him knowing even the things that slipped out, even the things he hadn’t _meant_ to know. “You…” His voice came out breathy, incredulous. “Why?”

Martin’s smile was a small, but genuine thing. It made his face look warm, even as pale and washed out as it was, like an overexposed picture. It looked like a hint of what he must have looked like before the Lonely. “Because it seems like you need it,” Martin answered easily. “And...I would very much like to feed from you, Jonathan Sims.”

Jon’s breath stuttered in his chest, fighting a shiver. “Oh.”

“Go on then,” Martin murmured, brows lifting slightly when Jon just stared. 

Jon swallowed, shaking himself. He’d never...he’d never actually done that before. Had always been so focused on fighting to keep out of other’s heads that he didn’t quite know how to relax into it. No one had ever let him. It took a moment with his eyes shut and brows furrowed in focus, but when he finally slipped through it was easy as breathing. 

Martin’s mind was cloudy. The part of it he’d been allowed into had wisps of it, like fog hanging low over the ground ready to be dispersed. Around him, there were walls of thick, rolling fog that looked impenetrable. He didn’t fight to venture there. There was more than enough in that small corner, thoughts of low, rumbling hunger and interest and concern. There was no malice to be found, no feeling of treachery or deceit. 

That interest, though, thrummed low and constant and warm. 

Jon pulled back before he could get lost in it, blinking back into reality around him. The transition was jarring enough that he stumbled a bit on his feet. Martin reached out to steady him, a strong hand wrapping around his arm. From the contact, even through the thin fabric of Jon’s shirtsleeve, he could tell Martin’s skin was cold. Not unbearable, not even unpleasant, really. It was...nice. Grounding.

Martin was very close, close enough that Jon could see the individual freckles on his nose. “Well?” Martin murmured, though he sounded a little breathless. 

The fog surrounded them like a blanket, a barrier against the rest of the world. Martin smelled like a sea breeze, and Jon found himself swaying towards him, just a little.

“How do I know you won’t take too much?” he still managed to ask.

“I won’t,” Martin said.

And Jon, perhaps against his better judgement, believed him. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” 

Jon huffed a sigh, though Martin seemed unmoved. “You know what.”

“I want you to say it,” Martin said, outrageously calm where Jon felt as though he might shake apart at the edges.

Jon pressed his lips together, glancing away. Martin took a step closer, crowding him against the wall, the fog pressing tighter around them. The coolness of it prickled his skin, a tendril of fog caressing his cheek, and Jon’s breath hitched in his throat. “Please,” he breathed, watching rapt, when Martin’s pupils blew wider and the whites of his eyes went cloudy like a storm over the water. “Take it.”

In answer, Martin placed one broad hand on the wall next to Jon’s head, and the other crooked under his chin, tilting his head up. Jon’s heart beat wildly in his chest, adrenaline rushing in his veins. “What are you doing?” 

Martin’s lovely mouth curved in a smile and he leaned closer, his nose nearly brushing Jon’s. “It’s easier with contact,” he said.

With that, he leaned in, slow enough that Jon could have pulled away, had the thought even crossed his mind. Jon’s thoughts whirled with the heady smell of the ocean, Martin’s fingers brushing over his cheek, and then, finally, the soft brush of his lips against Jon’s.

Jon felt that aching curl of loneliness drawn up and out of him as Martin’s mouth moved against his. The sheer relief was euphoric. If he hadn’t been leaning back against the wall, he might have lost his footing.

As it was, he felt utterly content, pressed in at all sides, Martin’s hands on his cheeks and his own buried in soft, sun bleached curls. Jon kissed back languidly, a warmth blooming in his chest that shouldn’t have been possible with the temperature of the room. Jon’s nose brushed Martin’s cheek as their mouths slotted together, and he basked in the comforting smell of him. Jon marveled at the gentle touches on his skin, each point of contact sending pleased shivers down his spine. He was unused to touches that didn't mean to hurt, nowadays, and couldn’t help but lean into them like he was drowning.

He wasn’t, of course. He felt, for the first time in a very long time, safe and unburdened. He decided to live in the feeling, for as long as it would have him, in its welcome form of broad palms and the soft press of lips against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we have...the arrangement. Seems like a fast pass to catching feelings if you ask me 😏😏😏
> 
> Lemme know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

It became a kind of routine after that.

Jon could last one, maybe two weeks, before caving to that fog in his chest that weighed down heavier and heavier, welling up in his lungs like seawater. It would have been, perhaps, easier to believe this new awareness of the Lonely’s presence was because of Martin, but part of Jon’s curse was that he could no longer be willfully ignorant. That fog had always been in him, coalescing and spreading through him like a cancer. It was just that _now_ he was acutely aware of it, like an itch under his skin he couldn’t hope to scratch. 

At least, not by himself. 

The problem was he was treating a symptom. Not a cause. No matter the light, unburdened feeling he may have felt after seeing Martin, the fog returned in increments, after every narrow-eyed glance from Basira, every flash of bared teeth from Melanie, every hour spent holed away in his office with only statements to sate the growing hunger gnawing in his stomach. 

It was a maddening cycle. And, surely, one that was unlikely to end well. Objectively, Jon knew this. 

Objectively, Jon knew a lot of things. 

He knew that with every movement of Martin’s mouth against his and every brush of his fingers on Jon’s face, it was becoming harder to blur the line between the light, euphoric feeling Martin gave him, and Martin himself. Jon wasn’t _stupid,_ knew the Eye was practically shoving information about classical conditioning and addiction into his head for a _reason,_ he just...

It was just that, after a few weeks, he wasn’t really missing the feeling of the fog gone, anymore. In the quiet moments at his desk, when his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone, it wasn’t a desire for the lightness in his chest that had his heart aching. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about Martin’s mouth. The press of him against Jon, solid and strong and capable when Jon wobbled on his feet. Jon couldn’t stop thinking about the way Martin’s skin warmed at his touch, like a brand under his fingertips. 

And then, there was the time a week ago, when Jon had caught Martin smiling at something in his book, the expression on his face soft and his eyes bright. And the fact that, when Martin glanced up at his entry, that soft look hadn’t quite gone away. It had muted, replaced some by a look of expectation, but Jon had still seen traces of it at the corners of Martin’s eyes and the uptick of the corner of his mouth. Jon had thought, in the moment, that if the full force of that soft look had been directed at him, he wouldn’t have been able to look away until he’d catalogued every inch of it, every curve and angle and shade until he could recreate it perfectly in his mind. 

It would have been easy to compartmentalize this if it were solely physical attraction. Martin was...

Jon very much liked to look at him. That was certain. He could count the spray of freckles across his nose from memory. He could remember the feeling of soft curls brushing his fingertips and the scarred skin of his palms so vividly he could almost convince himself it was real, in the darkness of his office. He could recollect, with perfect clarity, the feeling of Martin’s broad hands trailing against his own, against the line of his jaw, with the brush of his thumbs at Jon’s cheekbones. 

But Jon’s breath also caught at the gentle tone of Martin’s voice, once the fog was gone from his lungs, when Martin asked if Jon was alright to walk. Jon noticed every flash of concern in Martin’s eyes, whether it was when Jon entered his makeshift office, or later when Jon was flying high off the feeling of clear lungs and unburdened shoulders, with most of his weight settled against the wall, or a blanket on the floor, or, on one occasion when Jon had been particularly impatient, Martin’s desk. Jon wondered how, in those moments when Martin’s eyes were clouded over like a storm, so very far from human, that they could look exactly that. Human. 

While Martin could be cold, slightly distant, he was always kind. While his skin never retained the warmth of Jon’s fingertips, his voice carried more than enough, in his audible almost smiles. 

Jon breathed out a shaky breath from where he was now, at his desk, a long forgotten statement in front of him. This wasn’t going to end well. Especially now that Jon’s breath caught every time Martin looked at him, and Jon couldn’t help but remember that warm interest that had thrummed in Martin’s mind. 

Jon put his head in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes. He was reading into things. Martin’s interest hadn’t really been that strong, not really. A mild, curious thing, if anything. What they had was an arrangement. Mutually beneficial, certainly. A symbiotic relationship, the Eye informed him, smugly. Nothing more. Besides, it wasn’t as if Martin couldn’t feed on anyone else. Jon was...convenient. 

Martin never went looking for Jon. It was always Jon that went to him, after days of trying to convince himself he didn’t need to. Jon had tried, once, to wait it out. To see if Martin would seek him out, instead. He’d thought, maybe, it wasn’t just him that couldn’t stop thinking about their moments together. But Martin never seemed to act first, and Jon would always cave to the fog in his lungs before he could really stretch the weeks out. 

The conclusion was blindingly clear. For whatever reason, Martin had proposed this arrangement, even though Jon was certain he was getting more out of it. And Jon...he was going to keep at it, until Martin grew tired of it. It was sure to crash and burn eventually, and wasn’t even healthy in the interim, but... 

Jon had so very little good left in his life, that he was going to hold on to the scraps that he did have, until they dissolved to nothingness in his grip. 

* * *

Another week passed, another few hours spent with the hot press of Martin’s mouth against his, and then, like an uninvited guest, the coffin arrived. 

* * *

He was going into it. Jon had already decided only a few days after it’s arrival, upon discovering Daisy was inside and seeing something other than that cold, assessing look on Basira’s face. It was just a matter of steeling himself, now. Jon wasn’t certain he was going to make it out, and was...less certain he really cared, one way or the other. 

The plan to seek out Jared Hopworth was starting to make itself truly viable in Jon’s mind, and, well. He thought it prudent that when that time came, he should be at his best. That was why, the day before he planned to enter the coffin, he was knocking on Martin’s door. 

He had, at least, graduated to knocking now. He was proud of himself for remembering the most common social niceties, as trivial as they seemed now. 

Jon waited as there was a brief silence, a shift in the curling fog coming from under the door, and could imagine Martin, head tilted and eyes clouded over, trying to see who it was. A moment later had Martin’s voice telling him to come in. 

When Jon entered, Martin was still at his desk, head propped up against his hand and fingers buried in sun bleached curls as he frowned down at a statement. The sleeves of the blue knit sweater he wore were bunched up at his elbows. Jon watched the tendons in his right hand jump as Martin drummed against the desk, absentmindedly. “Sorry,” Martin murmured, eyes scanning the page. “I’m almost done.” Martin turned the page, reading quickly. His nose scrunched up, brows furrowing, as if he’d read something particularly disconcerting. The expression was so very human, so very earnest, it made Jon’s heart ache. 

Martin took another minute to finish, then set the statement to the edge of the desk with raised brows. “Right, that’s done then,” he said, looking up at Jon with a hint of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. 

Jon’s heart _ached._

He closed the distance between them with a few strides, straddling Martin’s lap and swallowing the surprised noise he made with his mouth. Martin’s skin warmed under Jon’s fingers, as his palms burned against Martin’s cheeks and he traced the edges of his jaw. 

If Jon didn’t come out of the coffin, this was the last time he’d have this. He wanted to burn it into his memory. He could already feel the weight in his chest start to fade as Martin drew it out of him, with every slow movement of his mouth. 

But then Martin was pulling away. Embarrassingly, Jon stifled a sound of protest that came to his throat at the loss of contact, though with the way Martin’s eyes flickered and dropped to his throat, for a moment, Jon wondered if he’d heard it. Jon tried to initiate again, but Martin kept the sparse distance between them, his fingers a gentle, but unyielding presence at Jon’s jaw and under his chin. “You’re eager today,” Martin murmured, sounding infuriatingly casual even though Jon was literally in his lap. He took some pleasure, at least, that the blue of Martin’s eyes were almost entirely swallowed by his pupils, and the whole of them were slowly clouding over. 

“And?” Jon asked techily. His eyes flickered down to Martin’s mouth. “Never bothered you before.”

Jon was pleased to see Martin’s throat bob up and down at that, and when he spoke again, it sounded a bit more strained. “It doesn’t. But you’re usually much worse off before coming here.” His eyes searched Jon’s face, narrowed slightly. “What’s changed?”

Jon hesitated for a moment, going still. He didn’t want to talk about the coffin. What he liked about going to Martin was that everything else tended to melt away. He could just exist, forget everything in the moments it lasted. He didn’t want that to change. Especially not this time, when it could have been the last. “Nothing,” Jon murmured, meeting Martin’s eyes.

Martin’s eyes narrowed. He leaned closer, close enough that their noses almost brushed, but his grip remained under Jon’s jaw, preventing Jon from simply closing the distance like he wanted to. Martin paused there, close but not close enough. “You’re a terrible liar, Jon,” he said softly. 

Jon could feel his face flushing, but before he could say anything, Martin was suddenly gone from underneath him, replaced by empty air and fog. Jon spluttered, awkwardly trying to find purchase on the now empty chair. He whirled around to see Martin leaning against the desk, arms crossed. Martin’s eyes were clearer, colder. “I don’t really like being lied to.”

Jon glared back at him, as he willed his heart to beat slower. He sometimes forgot that Martin was well and truly of the Lonely, and as powerful, if not more, than Jon, in his own right. “And I don’t appreciate the implication that you have any right to what you asked,” Jon shot back.

Martin tilted his head, considering, eyes studying Jon’s face with a degree of calm that was, ironically, maddening. “Is this about the coffin?” Something in Jon’s answering expression must have given it away, because Martin continued, “you know someone in it, don’t you?”

Jon stiffened. “How did you--have you been _eavesdropping_?”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it, as if he’d been about to deny it and thought better of it. 

Jon went cold at the implication. “For Lukas?” he accused, eyes narrowing.

Martin’s expression twitched. The temperature of the room dropped. His eyes, blue and clear, narrowed. “No. Believe it or not, Jon,” he said, his voice flat, “neither Lukas nor I are very interested in whatever sad moral quandary you all get yourselves wrapped up in for the week.”

Jon blinked, anger receding when he Knew Martin was telling the truth. “Oh,” he said, sheepishly, the tension in the room lessening slightly. “So why...?”

Martin’s fingers drummed against his arms where they were crossed, and he glanced away. “Look, I don’t just exist in this room, Jon. Sometimes, I’m out and about in the institute, and you all tend to discuss things in the open. I don’t like a lot of attention, so I preemptively...look, it’s not my fault you couldn’t see me.”

Jon stared, cataloging the way Martin shifted slightly on his feet, his eyes not quite meeting Jon’s, the barest flush on his cheeks. “Oh,” Jon said again, breathless with the warm feeling welling up in his chest. “Sorry.”

Martin met his eyes, the coldness in them thawing like melted snow. “So,” Martin said, softly. “What’s happened?”

Jon took a breath, trying to stop himself from getting lost in the soft curve of Martin’s mouth, and breathed out, “I’m going into the coffin, tomorrow.”

Martin’s expression froze, as if caught in time. Slowly, his brows drew together. “What?”

“I’m going in,” Jon repeated, feeling perhaps more calm than he should have about the idea. “It’s why I came to see you. I figured...I’d have the best chances that way.”

Martin was staring at him as if he was suddenly speaking in ancient tongues. “Going in,” Martin said slowly. 

“Yes,” Jon confirmed, settling cross legged on the chair. It was rather comfortable now that he was sitting properly.

“To the _Buried?”_ Martin asked, his voice finally taking on a tone other than utter bafflement. He almost sounded...angry.

“Yes,” Jon said again, though more tentatively this time.

Martin looked utterly at a loss. “Why?”

“What do you mean why?” Jon said, brows furrowing. “You said it yourself. Because someone I know is in there.”

“And, what, you want to be ground to a pulp together?”

“I’m going to get her out,” Jon said, slowly and clearly. He almost believed it himself.

Martin looked back at him, unconvinced, mouth a thin line. “That’s not a likely outcome.”

Jon shrugged. “If there’s the smallest possibility,” he said, “I’ll take it.”

“You can’t do this,” Martin said, eyes narrowed at him. “Jon--”

“What do you care?” Jon interrupted, heart beating too fast in his throat. He couldn’t afford to read into Martin’s tone, his expression, or how adamantly argued. Jon had already made up his mind. 

Martin blinked, his throat working up and down, before he schooled his expression. Jon couldn’t help but fixate on that moment before his expression smoothed out, his heart fluttering in his chest. 

“You say you want to get her out,” Martin said slowly. “How do you plan to do that? People don’t just walk out of the Buried.”

“Yes,” Jon said tiredly, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose, “I know that. I plan to use an anchor. To help from getting lost.”

“What kind of an anchor?” Martin asked, voice carefully level. 

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Martin’s eyes narrowed. “I thought,” Jon began slowly, “the most logical approach would be...using part of me. You--you’ve heard of the bone turner?”

Martin’s jaw was tense, and it looked like his teeth were grinding together. “I have,” he said, after a moment, his voice still, miraculously, level. “So you’re planning on using a bone?”

“A rib,” Jon said. 

Jon watched, rapt, as Martin breathed in deeply, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he glanced away. “That’s not going to be enough,” Martin said lowly.

Jon nodded distantly, taking a shaky breath. He had thought it might not be enough. But, well. He shrugged, and tried to sound unaffected. “It’s all I have.”

He could feel Martin’s eyes on him, but couldn’t quite bring himself to meet them. He stifled a sigh. This hadn’t been how he’d wanted this meeting to go. He’d been meant to spend this time feeling blissfully euphoric, cataloguing every line and curve of Martin’s face. Instead, he was only acutely aware of the distance between them, and a rising dread of what might meet him tomorrow. 

Jon was jolted out of his thoughts by Martin’s approach. Martin reached out, fingers tilting Jon’s head up as he leaned down, pressing his lips gently against Jon’s. The rest of that lonely weight in Jon’s lungs was drawn up out of him, as Martin’s mouth moved slow and careful and tender. 

Jon blinked languidly when Martin finally pulled away, his fingers tangled in the holes of Martin’s knit sweater. Martin breathed out slowly, tilting his head and pressing their foreheads together. Jon’s breath hitched in his chest, his eyes closing. All around him was the smell of the sea and the press of Martin’s hands against his face and Martin’s breath ghosting against his skin. 

“That loneliness is a part of you,” Martin murmured, close enough that Jon could almost feel the words vibrating his chest. “And that part of you is in me.” Martin pulled back, but his hands remained, cradling Jon’s face. Jon’s eyes fluttered open slowly, and when he met Martin’s, Jon saw they looked like storm clouds, intent on him, as if there was nothing else in the world. “So,” Martin continued, his voice steady like open water, “that is _not_ all you have. Do you understand?”

Jon didn’t. Didn’t understand the depth of that warmth welling in his chest, or why his heart was beating against his ribs like a jackrabbit, or why it felt suddenly hard to breathe. (He did). 

Wordlessly, Jon nodded, breathing in shakily when Martin leaned down once more to press a gentle kiss to his mouth, a fleeting, feather-light touch that had his heart aching, and left his skin tingling like a reminder.

* * *

The Buried was just as awful and cloying and disorienting as he’d expected. But against all odds, he found Daisy, and they remained together, hands clasped in a death grip, until Jon could properly find that hint of himself he’d left behind. It wasn’t the bone that called to him, but rather the smell of the sea, the curl of fog, and something that was utterly his own, a whirring and prickling of the Eye that Jon could have found in his sleep.

He and Daisy emerged after hours, days, of choking on dirt, coughing and gasping, to find the room covered wall to wall in running cassette players, and a lingering chill of the oceanside hanging in the air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohohooooo we have really one upped ourselves with the YEARNING in this one Jon
> 
> Tbh writing this made me really sad about Jon. Like just imagining what Jon's experience would have been like without martin there for the first 3 seasons??? Oh man, it made me really sad. But Martin is here to give him the love and support he deserves guys


	4. Chapter 4

It took a few minutes for him and Daisy to take more than a step apart after leaving the coffin. When they’d collapsed over the side, gasping at air finally free of dust, their hands were still clasped in a death grip. They’d both experienced what it was like to be alone, with only the unforgiving press of earth for company—Daisy far longer than he had—and it was instinctual to cling to the warmth of another person’s skin. 

And because Daisy...Daisy was different down in the coffin, without the blood singing in her ears, and Jon had realized how utterly alike they were. How deeply he _understood_ her. The closest he’d ever felt to that had been with Martin. So he kept his hand clutched in her’s, and she gripped his back, almost hard enough that it was painful. 

They were just sitting there, shaking and squinting in the harsh lights of the institute, when Basira burst into the room. Upon seeing her, Daisy’s breath caught, and she slowly and gently disentangled her fingers from his. Jon watched the disbelieving look on Basira’s face shift to a breathless relief as Daisy folded herself into her, pressing so tightly together that it was almost hard to tell where one began and the other ended. He merely watched them for a moment, still getting used to the feeling of fresh air in his lungs. Basira was looking back at him over Daisy’s shoulder, uncharacteristic tears in her eyes. _Thank you,_ she mouthed at him, and in the same moment Jon could hear the relief and gratitude pouring out of her head like she was projecting it at him. He nodded once at her in response, and tilted his head back to lean against the wood of the coffin. 

The smell of the ocean was fainter, now, but Jon could still catch a hint of it when he closed his eyes. He thought of ocean blue eyes and sun-bleached curls, and he ached.

As soon as he felt as though the real world was under him again, and after Basira had ushered Daisy away to get some proper rest, Jon made his way to the old storeroom Martin had taken up in. He could tell something had changed even before entering the room. There was no fog curling from under the door, no sound of paper scraping against paper coming from inside. 

When Jon opened the door, he found the room empty and the desk clear, save for a single book on its surface. He crossed the room slowly, trying to tamp down on the sinking disappointment in his stomach. He’d hoped...

Well. He supposed finding the cassette recorders in the room with the coffin was more than enough. Martin had put them there to help guide him out, and that _meant_ something. At least to Jon. 

He came up to the desk, picking up the book of poetry Martin had left. Keats, of course. No accounting for taste. Jon idly flipped through the pages, stubbornly ignoring the ache in his chest. He blinked when a small slip of paper fluttered free, falling onto the desk. Jon set aside the book slowly, his eyes locked on that tiny piece of paper, curiosity overriding that burning disappointment for a moment. He unfolded the piece of paper, reading the few words scribbled down. 

_Called away. Back soon._

Jon lowered the paper slightly, thinking that was all, and mild disappointment returned, but with the light hitting the page differently, he could see the hint of something on the back. Turning it over, he read the additional message, and a smile twitched briefly on his face.

_I told you the bone wouldn’t work._

_x_

* * *

The following week was a strange shift. Basira was far less cold, no doubt a by-product of Daisy’s being there, and Daisy was at his side far more often than not. Jon found he didn’t mind it at all. Rather the opposite, in fact. She said she wasn’t fond of being alone anymore, and Jon understood far more than he might have before the Unknowing. 

So Daisy kept him company while he recorded as well as in the moments where he had no immediate work to do, even convincing him to go out for drinks one night, and he...

He didn’t feel weighed down, anymore. That thick fog in his chest was more of a memory than anything else, after a few days. 

That week also brought the realization of what was happening with Melanie. Jon didn’t know how he’d missed it before. Perhaps it was because seeing Melanie in the institute for more than a few minutes at a time was rare those days. Or because it hadn’t been quite so bad, before. But after emerging from the coffin and catching a glimpse of Melanie, that bullet rotting away in her leg was the most glaring thing Jon had ever seen.

He employed Basira to help him get it out of her, and the resulting stab wound wasn’t pleasant, but healed over fast enough. Melanie was far from forgiving, but no longer murderous. Jon supposed it was a better outcome than they were used to getting. 

As busy as the week felt, in the quiet moments he was still plagued by the feeling of absence. A presence missing in the archive that he hadn’t realized he’d been so accustomed to, at the edges of his perception. In the quiet moments, Jon missed him. Wondered where he’d gone. Wondered when he might be back. 

At the end of the week, upon emerging from his office to pick up more statements, Jon saw him, with his fingers skimming over the statements on the shelves, in an aisle at the center of the archive. 

Jon made his way over to him without thought, breath caught in his throat as he looked Martin over. He looked paler than he had before, his skin practically white against the black turtleneck he wore, hair lighter. 

“You’re back,” Jon breathed.

Martin dropped his hand, turning to look at him. Had his eyes always been that pale? “Oh. Hello, Jon.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Jon’s eyes were caught by it. Martin’s eyes flickered over him, up and down. “Glad you’re still in one piece,” he said softly.

“I...” Jon’s voice, for a moment, failed him. “Yes, I am. I...tried to find you, when I made it out. To thank you, but you...you’d left.”

Something in Martin’s expression flickered at that, but it was smoothed over so quickly Jon couldn’t tell what it had looked like. “I’m sorry. I waited until I was sure you were on your way up. But I was needed on the Tundra.”

“The Tundra? Lukas’ ship?”

Martin’s mouth twitched again at that, but this time the smile didn’t look entirely genuine. “The very one.” Before Jon could ask after it further, his breath caught at the way Martin looked at him, as if looking through him. He watched as Martin’s expression took on some surprise, and then carefully leveled out. “You’re looking better,” Martin said, after a moment.

Jon knew exactly what he meant without having to ask. He didn’t feel that heavy fog in his lungs now. He’d never expected it, the loss of loneliness that would come with Daisy’s presence. Would have never guessed, but now it made all the sense in the world. 

But it also meant he wouldn’t have any real reason to seek Martin out anymore. Other than the aching feeling he hadn’t yet given voice to.

Jon searched Martin’s face for any hint of what he felt at the implication, for once wishing Martin might be loud with his thoughts like Basira, or, on occasion, Daisy. “I am,” Jon answered tentatively. “Feeling better. Things have been...better.”

Jon was watching his face so intently for any movement that when Martin’s throat bobbed up and down, he caught it. Martin’s eyes dropped to the floor between them for a moment, before meeting Jon’s again, steady and revealing nothing. His mouth pulled up into a small smile that looked a little tense at the edges, but when he murmured, “I’m glad, Jon,” his voice was devastatingly sincere. 

Jon desperately wanted to close the gap between them, the expanse that seemed to be growing with every breath. His fingers twitched at his side, his mouth working futilely. He wanted...

He wanted to reach out without the pretense of a give and take. He wanted to kiss some color back into Martin’s cheeks and feel Martin’s skin warm at his touch. And he wanted to be wanted like that in return. 

His mouth worked, but he couldn’t get the words to roll off his tongue. They were caught in the vice of his throat, choked by the fear that he’d be asking for too much. That he wouldn’t even be able to have _this_ , Martin a foot away and looking at him far more warmly than any avatar should have a right to. 

Martin raised his brows slowly when Jon failed to say anything. “Were you looking for a statement as we—“

“Could I see you tomorrow?” Jon blurted.

He felt his face flush darker with every second Martin stared silently back at him, brows drawn. “See me?” Martin murmured after a moment, confused.

Jon fought the overwhelming urge to hide his face away and retreat. “I—y-yes, I...I’d like to...to see you. If that’s alright.”

The confusion did not leave Martin’s face, and for a brief moment Jon considered the benefits of crawling back into the Buried. “But you’re not...?” Martin made a vague gesture toward Jon’s chest, brow furrowed.

“No, I-I know. But...I’d still like to see you,” Jon answered weakly. 

Martin’s expression smoothed out in realization, eyes blinking wider. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

Jon felt a little lightheaded. Martin was looking at him as if considering something new, head tilted and eyes soft. It had Jon’s breath catching in his chest, hope fluttering along with his heart. “So,” Jon said, after a beat, “would you—“

“Hey, Sims,” Daisy’s voice called behind. Jon turned, catching her head popping into the aisle. “What happened? You said you were just grabbing a statement.” Her eyes briefly scanned the aisle behind him, before returning to his. “Almost sounded like you were talking to someone.”

Jon whirled around, heart in his throat, and it sank down to his stomach when he realized the aisle was empty. “Oh,” he breathed. 

“Jon?” Daisy asked, slowly, brow furrowing as she looked him over. “You alright?”

He turned to her, a hollow feeling carving its way through him. “I...sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long, I just thought...” 

He’d just thought, maybe, Martin might have felt the same way. It seemed that wasn’t the case. He shouldn’t have pushed, shouldn’t have asked for more. Jon took a shaky breath, opening his mouth to answer Daisy’s question, when he felt an arm wind around his middle.

He froze in surprise, his hand dropping to it instinctually. He felt the soft texture of Martin’s sleeve under his hand, the cold press of Martin’s palm burning a brand into his side, even as he looked down and there was nothing there. Jon’s breath rushed out of him when he felt the brush of Martin’s mouth against his cheek, his eyes fluttering. “Tomorrow, then,” Martin murmured, so close his curls ghosted over Jon’s temple and his voice rumbled in his ear.

Then, he was gone. Jon glanced behind, reaching out to make sure. Nothing remained but empty air. 

But _tomorrow._ Tomorrow, tomorrow. The word rang in his head and swelled in his chest. He brought a shaky hand to his cheek, fingertips brushing over Martin’s fading touch. 

“Um.” Jon turned to see Daisy’s perplexed expression, bordering on unease. It was very clear Martin hadn’t been visible to her either. “What the _fuck?”_ Daisy asked, with feeling. 

Later, after dragging him to the pub and pulling the truth from him, Daisy grinned wolfishly the rest of the night, and Jon felt better than he had in a very long time.

* * *

The next day had him responding to Martin’s warm “come in” with sweaty palms against the doorknob and a racing heart. It was, objectively, an overreaction. He’d done this dozens of times before. But Jon couldn’t help but recontextualize this as something new. Unexplored. And he was sick to his stomach at the thought of mucking it up. 

He opened the door to see Martin stepping away from the desk, crossing the room. Martin wore a soft looking blue sweater, more billowing and oversized than Jon was used to seeing. It didn’t make his skin look quite so pale, but Jon still couldn’t banish the thought that he was sure Martin hadn’t been so ghostly before the Tundra. 

“Hello, Jon,” Martin greeted softly, pausing a few feet away.

“Hello,” Jon replied. His breath felt as though it caught in his throat on the exhale. He felt dizzy, seeing the soft look on Martin’s face, in the curve of his smile. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, breathless.

Martin blinked, eyes raking over Jon’s face as if he was surprised that Jon wanted to, when it was all he could think about. Martin, slowly, nodded, taking a step to close the distance between them, and Jon moved the rest of the way. His hands cupped Martin’s face and he leaned up, pressing his lips against his and breathing in the scent of him until his lungs were full with it. 

Martin’s broad hands were twin weights at the small of his back, pulling him closer. The kisses quickly became more insistent, a fervent press of lips that Jon opened up to gladly, following Martin’s slow movements until he felt the wall graze his shoulder blades. He leaned back against it, bracketed by Martin’s arms, one braced against the wall and the other curled gently around his cheek. 

He was so utterly content in that moment, it didn’t register until too late that Martin’s hand was traveling lower and lower. Martin’s hand pressed against the front of his trousers, and Jon froze, breath catching in his throat for an entirely different reason. 

Martin noticed, pulling back and looking at his face, pupils blown. “What’s wrong?”

“I—um.” Jon took a shaky breath, trying and failing to meet Martin’s eyes. He supposed he hadn’t exactly given any indication of it to Martin before. That was his own fault. But now, as the silence grew and Martin waited, brow furrowed, for a response, Jon’s heart thudded unpleasantly in his ears. “I’m sorry. I should have...should have said, I don’t, um.” His voice shook, and Jon hated it. “I don’t really like to do...that,” he finished in a rush. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Martin’s eyes, but he could imagine the dawning disappointment.

There was an awful silence, then Martin said, “oh. _Oh.”_

Jon glanced up, heart in his throat, and froze when he saw Martin’s expression. He looked _horrified._

“I’m sorry,” Martin breathed, wrapping his arms around himself. His face looked like it was going shades paler by the second, the edges of him blurring like fog dissipating away. “I should have asked, I-I shouldn’t have just...I-I should have asked, I’m—I’m sorry—“

“Hey,” Jon murmured, reaching out to cup Martin’s face. It felt, for a moment, formless like fog, but slowly solidified under his fingers. “It’s alright. I didn’t exactly say.”

The panic that had filled Martin’s eyes was slowly fading away as Jon’s thumbs brushed his cheeks, Martin’s chest rising and falling more steadily. “I still should have asked,” Martin said, his voice a little unsteady. 

“It’s okay,” Jon repeated, meeting Martin’s eyes to make sure he understood. “Just...for future reference. I don’t tend to like anything below the belt.”

Martin nodded pensively, seemingly back to his former, calm self. His eyes looked a little cloudier, and with each breath he took, Jon could almost see fog leaving him on exhale. As his fingers reached up to trace Jon’s, palms covering his own, Jon couldn’t help but wonder what had sparked that intense panic, and where it had gone. “Is there anything else?” Martin asked, his eyes searching Jon’s. “Anything else...off limits?”

“No. Not really. And if...well, if _you’d_ like to get off,” Jon said, one of his hands dropping to Martin’s chest as he watched for his reaction, “I could...?”

Martin looked thoughtful for a moment, before saying slowly, as if testing the word out, “no. No, I think...I think I would like it if we didn’t.”

Jon blinked, a little surprised, but nodded, bringing his hand back up to brush Martin’s cheek. “Alright,” he agreed, a small smile on his face. 

When Martin still seemed to hesitate, Jon slowly closed the gap between them, and the rhythm they’d had slowly built up again. Martin’s hands trailed over his skin, but they very carefully never strayed too far down.

* * *

It went on like that. Jon saw even more of Martin than he had before, reached out without any fear of rejection, without the crafted rules of a business interaction hanging over their heads. Just the sight of him was enough to send Jon’s heart fluttering in his chest and his stomach swooping like he was falling. He’d never been so happy to fall before. 

And then, after a few too many days of neglecting the statements that he needed to record, he felt the pull of a statement in a woman in a coffee shop, and a hunger like he’d never known before took him over entirely. 

He stole her fear from her throat, relishing in the way her voice trembled, and tears ran down her cheeks. He didn’t even have the decency to feel any regret until he saw her in his dreams, screaming and crying, when the sickening weight of what he’d done began to sink in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( oh Jon


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for some warnings about this chapter, if you'd like to know beforehand what it will entail

There was a spiraling crack in his wall. It was exactly 5 feet and 3.5 inches above the floor, and about 3 inches long. Jon had never noticed it before, but that wasn’t entirely surprising. This flat was different from his old one, the one he’d had before Nikola and the Unknowing. 

He’d liked his old flat. He’d kept it neat, homey--or at least what he thought of as homey, with furniture you could sink into and mountainous collections of books. It had been a respite for him to spend the--admittedly dwindling--hours away from the Institute there. 

That flat was gone now. _This_ one was purchased not out of any real necessity but more...muscle memory. That was what people did, wasn’t it? Lived in flats, not Institute basements. Normal people didn’t succumb to exhaustion at their work desks. Normal people went home to well-worn flats and pets and loved ones.

Despite this objective knowledge, Jon didn’t stay in his new flat much. It wasn’t so much a home as it was something to pour his paychecks into. 

He thought it was both hysterical and unspeakably awful, that he was still getting paid. As if the Institute really was just a job, and not something that had utterly and entirely consumed his life until there was nothing left of it, or him, that was recognizable. 

Still, the money had to go somewhere, so it went to his colorless, empty flat, that he rarely even visited. 

Until now. He stared at that crack in the wall, at the 156 micro-fractures in the thin plaster that he couldn’t quite see but _knew_ were there. His eyelids weighed heavy. He ached, his stomach clenching like something trying to eat itself. 

The chair he couldn’t remember buying creaked under him as he shifted slightly, his elbows digging into the cheap kitchen table. He pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples and tried to will away the headache that had been building in his skull for the past few days. 

Had it already been a few days?

The incessant flow of information that liked to butt its way into his head was quieter now, with the rising pulses of pain in his head. It hurt, but it was blissfully silent. He fought every blink that threatened to keep his eyes shut for too long. 

It had been a few days. Since he’d recorded a statement. Since he’d stolen any from innocent women at coffee shops. Since he’d been to the Institute. 

Since he’d slept, because now he saw her face in his nightmares as well. Nausea rose in his throat when he thought about it. He didn’t even know her _name._ Hadn’t bothered to ask because an introduction hadn’t been what he’d been after. 

Jon wished he could have convinced himself he’d just been...taken over by something. Hunger. Or the Eye itself, but...it hadn’t been quite so simple. He had seen her fear, and he’d wanted it. Wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his life, more than he wanted the breath in his lungs or the blood in his veins. 

So he’d chosen to take it. And, afterward, he dreamt of her, and he couldn’t stand it. 

He pressed his palms against his eyes, wishing he could just tear the image of her out of his head. He remembered everything with such perfect clarity, now, and he’d never thought of it as more of a curse than in that moment.

Jon wondered if he could still starve, even though he was no longer human. If he just...sat there, how long would it take him to waste away? Maybe that would be best. For everyone. One less monster in the world.

He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to live like this. Constantly taking more than he ever had a right to. It was the fear that he might do it again that kept him rooted to the spot, and the fear of again seeing what he’d done that kept him fighting the horrors that awaited if he slept. 

He was so tired. Tired, and sick with guilt, and hating the awful creature that crawled under his skin. It felt as though the parts that made him Jonathan Sims were sloughing off and away, piece by piece, and he didn’t much want to see what lay underneath. 

He knew its name, though. _Archivist._

He refused to let it take anymore of him, so he remained, fighting the hunger, and the pull from the Institute that tightened around his heart. He wanted to see if there was any part of him that was still human.

Or maybe...he just couldn’t imagine facing anyone after what he’d done. He had _just_ repaired his relationship with Basira. And Daisy...she was doing better. So much better, and he couldn’t jeopardize that. 

And Martin... what would Martin think? Jon truly didn’t know. They hadn’t ever talked about it. _How_ Martin fed, if it wasn’t with Jon. And it hadn’t been with Jon, for weeks now, because Jon had been doing _better._ He should have known it wouldn’t last. 

He remained in his apartment for another day. The pain thrummed in his head like a drum, pressing against the backs of his eyes and searing in a way that drove all rational thought away. He was so hungry he shook with it, so exhausted he lost bits of time. He lasted until there was a great tidal wave of pain in his head, like a blow, and his vision bled black.

When he came back to himself, he was at the Institute. Had made it all the way to the door of his office before he blinked back to reality. 

It appeared the Eye well and truly refused to let him go now. Jon entertained the idea of spitefully turning around and walking out again, but his legs were already trembling where they stood, his stomach twisting, and head pulsing with agony that blurred his vision. He didn’t think he’d make it a step outside the Institute, and he could already sense the fear of the statements waiting for him, curling in the air, comforting like the scent of baking bread. 

When he opened the door with a trembling hand, he saw his office was already occupied. Martin turned as the door opened, head whipping around, and eyes raking over Jon immediately. The light blue linen of his shirt was wrinkled, one of his sleeves rolled up higher than the other. There were dark circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there before, stark against pale skin. His mouth was a thin line as he looked Jon over, brows furrowed, his broad hand hovering over the statements Jon had left, scattered haphazardly on his desk. He was beautiful.

Jon didn’t understand what he was doing there. He blinked at Martin, the image of him not quite making sense in his hunger-addled mind. Martin didn’t go to him. He went to Martin, that was how it _worked._ Because Martin didn’t need him as much as he needed Martin. He knew that. It was a fact he’d reconciled with a long time ago, settled in his mind along with the surety of things like gravity. 

So Jon couldn’t make sense of the image of him, disheveled and tired, in the middle of Jon’s office. He squinted, as if that would help, but it only served to intensify his shooting headache. The resulting loss of vision and swell of nausea was not at all pleasant, but what _was_ pleasant was the sudden safety of strong arms wrapping around him and the scent of the ocean. 

Strangely, Martin didn’t say anything when Jon clung to him and his vision slowly returned. He didn’t really want to shatter the moment of calm anyway. He could hear the slow, almost imperceptible beat of Martin’s heart where his ear was pressed against his chest, and felt the slow rise and fall of his breaths. After what felt like far too short a time, Martin shifted, and Jon pulled away. “Sorry,” he murmured, attempting to take a step back, but Martin’s shifting grip on his arm stopped him. 

He looked up to see Martin staring at him, his expression unreadable. Finally, Martin sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “You don’t have to be sorry, Jon.”

“I did--” Jon screwed his eyes shut against a wave of nausea and pain, taking a shaky breath. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he managed breathlessly.

When Jon swayed on his feet, Martin was there, broad hand braced against Jon’s arm. Martin’s expression hardened, like a layer of ice settling, but when he spoke his voice was soft. “You need to sit down, Jon.”

Jon didn’t really have the energy to protest, so when Martin helped him to his desk, he relented, letting Martin take his weight when the ground tilted. When he had something solid under him again, he pressed his head in his hands, as if the pressure could distract from the roiling pain in his skull. He felt Martin’s fingers brush through his hair, the skin of his palm pleasantly cool, and Jon pressed up into it, barely restraining a groan. The pain didn’t go away, but it did abate somewhat. 

Martin sighed again somewhere above him, but his fingers kept up their motion of tracing little circles against Jon’s scalp. After a few minutes, he murmured, “stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jon blinked at the loss of his touch, pain already returning to his temples and behind his eyes. He heard Martin’s footsteps fade away, but didn’t have enough presence of mind to wonder where Martin was going. The agony in his head filled up too much space, buzzing with an intensity that had tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

He pressed his palms against them, sitting still and stiff as if the pain was something that would pass him over if he hid from it, if it couldn’t see him. He must have been losing time, because it seemed like only a few seconds before Martin’s footsteps returned and he was a steady presence at Jon’s side again. 

Jon blinked fuzzily at the recorder and aging paper that Martin had placed on the table in front of him. He distantly registered Martin crouching down beside him, his palm on Jon’s shoulder. Then, Martin’s hand on his right cheek, gently but insistently guiding Jon’s head to turn. His thumb brushed against Jon’s cheek and Jon’s eyes nearly fluttered shut, a shiver running down his spine. It was nice, to focus on that and not the wreck that he’d made of himself. “Jon,” Martin said softly, drawing his eyes open again. Jon wanted to live in the rumble of Martin’s chest when he spoke, exactly like that, soft and steady like velvet. “Jon,” Martin said again, and this time Jon blinked, focusing on Martin’s steady, blue eyes. “Love, I need you to record this statement. Could you do that?”

Jon took a shaky breath, distantly registering the words and what they meant. Dread filled his stomach at the thought, even as it twisted and ached with emptiness. “I...I don’t...”

“You’ll feel better once you do,” Martin assured gently. “I promise, love.”

There was a lump forming in his throat, as he stared at Martin’s face, calm as a still lake, and the look in his eyes so very soft. Jon felt wretched in comparison. He felt broken, like porcelain a touch away from shattering entirely. He felt inhuman, with the roaring pain in his head and his twisting stomach, aching for someone else’s fear. When he tried to breathe his breath hitched in his throat. “I don’t--” His voice broke around the word, his throat clenching down on it like a vice. Hot tears pricked the backs of his eyes. Martin was looking at him, so clearly concerned in that quiet way of his, and Jon felt like snapping in half. “I don’t think I want to,” he finally managed. 

Admitting to it was like a dam breaking. The first sob escaped his throat, and then he couldn’t stop them from tearing out of his chest. His vision blurred as the tears finally began to fall, making his head hurt all the more, which just helped the tears along. 

He wasn’t sure when Martin had moved, but one moment he had been at Jon’s side and the next his arms were wrapping around him again, his fingers stroking his hair. Jon couldn’t help but latch onto the comfort of it, his arms winding tightly around Martin’s middle, burying his face in Martin’s stomach as the sobs wrenched their way out of his throat. Everything hurt so very much and he just wanted it to stop. 

“I know,” Martin was murmuring. Jon felt him bend to press a kiss to his hair and it made him cry harder. “I know, love. I know.”

After a lifetime, the tears finally dried away. His throat ached. His head spun and felt like it was shot through with lead. His breaths came shaky and stuck in his throat. He’d made a mess of Martin’s shirt. 

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin said, his fingers still tracing little circles against his aching skull.

Jon blinked up at him, sniffing. He must have accidentally said that last part out loud. “Sorry,” he croaked.

Something Jon couldn’t identify flashed over Martin’s face for a moment. Jon saw the line of his throat bob up and down. “You don’t have to apologize, love.”

“You keep calling me that,” Jon couldn’t help but notice.

Martin’s fingers paused in their motion for a moment, the only sign of a reaction. “Do you want me to stop?” Martin asked calmly. 

Jon didn’t. He really didn’t. He just didn’t understand how Martin could say it, with such calm, honest conviction. “Jon?” Martin prompted when Jon didn’t answer, trying to meet his eyes.

“Please don’t stop,” Jon whispered. 

Something in Martin’s eyes softened at that, his fingers brushing gently over the curve of Jon’s ear, and it was far too much. Jon’s head throbbed, his stomach carved in on itself, and his heart ached. “How do you do it?” Jon asked. At Martin’s questioning glance, he added hollowly, “keep going?”

Martin’s fingers stilled in their motion again. Jon could feel him looking down at him, but he couldn’t quite meet his eyes. 

Martin crouched down again beside the desk, his right hand brushing lightly against Jon’s cheek, just above the curve of his jaw. “I need to tell you something,” he said. When Jon met his eyes, frowning slightly, Martin continued, “we had a woman come to the Institute today. I thought she might have had a statement, but...it wasn’t exactly that. She said she’d met one of the Magnus Institute employees at a coffee shop. And that he’d...done something to her.”

Jon’s heart plummeted as he spoke, dread weighing thick in his stomach. “I gathered that person might have been you,” Martin continued. “You hadn’t been here in a few days, I was already...concerned and then--” Martin cut off, taking a breath and glancing away for a moment. Jon’s eyes flicked over his expression, taking it in like a drowning man gasping at air. “I was hoping I’d find you here, when you came back,” Martin said softly, glancing back at him. “You didn’t deserve to be alone, after that.”

Jon swallowed roughly, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve _anything_ after that--”

“You do,” Martin said, his voice firm. 

Jon let out a humorless laugh that was more of a sob than anything else. “I don’t.”

“I know,” Martin said, “how hard it can be to reconcile with that hunger, Jon. I _know_ what that’s like. But letting yourself waste away like this is _not_ the answer.”

“Why not?” Jon asked quietly.

“Because you deserve to _live,_ Jon.”

Jon shook his head, his throat tightening up again. “I can’t live like this--”

“So don’t,” Martin said fiercely. Jon blinked at him, startled. “Find a different way,” Martin continued, meeting his eyes intently. “Don’t rely on what you were taught. Find another way, Jon, because I promise you, another way exists.”

Jon stared at him, a little bit in awe through the sheer exhaustion. “How do you do it?” he asked, his voice soft with fatigue. “Feed, I mean.” 

Martin blinked at him. “We’re not talking about me,” he said eventually.

Jon frowned through the haze in his head. He couldn’t tell exactly anymore, but he thought the room temperature may have dropped. “But--”

“There are the more obvious ways of feeding,” Martin said, not quite looking at him. “And then there are more...abstract ways. But there is always more than one way.”

Jon took a shaky breath, sinking back into the chair. Martin’s hand dropped from his face and while he mourned the loss, he didn’t think he would drift away without it anymore. “I don’t even know what that would look like for me.”

Martin studied his face quietly, rising and settling to lean against the desk. One of his hands settled over Jon’s and Jon flipped his over so their fingers could intertwine. Finally, Martin murmured, “is it the compelling that you want to stop?”

Jon considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I think...even the live statement givers who’ve come here have been compelled. In a way. Even if I wasn’t fully aware of it. The act of...recording it, of introducing the statement...it helps draw their story out of them in a way that’s not natural. And those are the ones that I see in nightmares.”

“So don’t record them,” Martin said, as if it were that easy. “Don’t compel.”

Jon shook his head, wincing when it made his head spin. “I don’t think I can just subsist on written statements anymore--”

“That’s not what I said,” Martin said pointedly. 

Jon stared at him, processing. “I...Martin, how do you suggest I get statements of horrible fear and trauma to be given to me voluntarily?”

Martin tilted his head, quietly pensive. He met Jon’s eyes. “Become a high school guidance counselor?”

A surprised snort of a laugh escaped him, so abrupt and genuine that he couldn’t contain it. The answering smile that spread over Martin’s face, soft and lovely, was well worth it. 

Martin pushed away from the desk and took a step closer to him. Automatically, Jon’s hands drifted to Martin’s waist, fingers brushing against the soft linen of his shirt. Jon’s eyes fluttered shut when Martin bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, a barely there brush of lips. “Whatever the answer is,” Martin said softly, pulling back to look at him, “I will help you find it. For now, please record the statement, love. Please. Because I’ve just found a man who makes me feel far better than I am when I’m alone, and I don’t want to lose him.”

Jon stared up at him, his throat tightening and his heart thudding in his chest. He swallowed, blinking away the sudden heat in his eyes. “Okay,” he sighed. “Okay.”

Martin traced the line of his cheek once more, before his hand dropped away. “I’ll go make us some tea.”

Jon watched him go, feeling like his heart was ballooning in his chest and straining at his ribs, swelling up to his throat. He ached like a bruise, but even before he pressed the record button on the cassette recorder, he felt better. 

He felt more so, though, when Martin returned, quietly keeping him company as he finished the statement, and staying long after. 

* * *

Things weren’t perfect, after that. He still felt as though he could drown in the guilt. Was still afraid of that hunger rising in him and guiding him to do something else he might regret. But Martin was there, and Daisy, after absolutely ripping into him about disappearing, was a constant support. Even Basira, no doubt helped along by Daisy, helped keep him sane. 

The days passed, and he kept his head above water. Spent most of them with Martin, tracing warmth into his skin with his fingertips. 

It was on one of those days that things changed. Jon was enjoying the feeling of Martin’s hands drifting across his skin and the press of Martin’s mouth against his when, all of a sudden Martin went still. He stopped breathing. His heartbeat slowed to an almost imperceptible speed. The temperature of the room plunged. 

Jon pulled back, his hands on Martin’s face as he studied it. Martin’s eyes were distant and he looked...

Before Jon could categorize what exactly that look was, Martin’s hands gripped his shoulders roughly and he pushed Jon away from Martin’s desk, shoving him toward the wall. His shoulder blades hit it first, and he winced, wrapping his arms around himself instinctively. It was so abrupt and so uncharacteristically brutal Jon could only gape at Martin, and he didn’t even get a real chance to process before Martin had come up to him and pressed him against the wall by his shoulders. 

Martin’s eyes were hard and his jaw clenched tight as he looked down at him, and Jon, in that moment, realized what that expression on Martin’s face had been. It had been _fear._

The realization was reeling, and even more so was the hushed, almost frantic command that Martin gave him. “No matter what happens, you do not move from this spot, and you do not make a sound. Do you understand?”

Jon didn’t even have a chance to respond before Martin was moving away, turning back to the desk and idly picking up one of the pages of the statement that had been strewn there. Jon watched him and realized there was something almost blurring his vision, like he was looking through glass frosting over. 

Martin’s expression had smoothed over almost effortlessly, that tension replaced by a look that was almost like boredom. 

It looked alien on Martin’s face. Jon was so used to the subtle signs of life there that seeing it barren was jarring, and had his stomach dropping like a rock. 

“Still on the O’Neill statement?” a new, drawling voice asked, amusement curling the words.

It was a trial to keep from letting out a sound of shock. Jon hadn’t heard or seen anything until suddenly he did, a figure in a long, navy blue coat appearing out of the mist just behind Martin. Jon hadn’t seen Peter Lukas since that day outside the Institute, with a teal car and curling fog. 

He recognized him effortlessly. The blue eyes that seemed so much crueler than Martin’s, the towering form well over six feet, and the blinding white teeth that grinned, charming, like a shark before it tore into you.

“It’s dry,” Martin said blandly, his expression unchanged. He hadn’t even turned around. 

Lukas took a step closer to him, a hand lighting on Martin’s hip and turning him around. Bile and fury rose in Jon’s throat, but he couldn’t _do_ anything. Martin had asked him not to.

Martin leaned back against the desk, Lukas’ hand still on his hip. He raised a lazy brow. 

“Miss me?” Lukas asked.

Martin’s eyes looked over his face evenly, before his eyes settled back on Lukas’. “Not particularly.”

Lukas’ smile grew, the knuckles of his right hand brushing over Martin’s cheek. At the touch, Martin’s eyes flickered and went grey, a cloud of fog leaving his mouth on the exhale. Lukas’ fingers pressed against Martin’s jaw, creating divots in the skin around his fingertips. “Good boy.”

When Lukas leaned in, Jon looked away, boring holes into the opposite wall. His face flooded with heat and he shook with barely contained anger. 

He froze, his eyes flicking back to Martin when he heard Lukas’ voice murmur something, low and easy, and yet also somehow barbed like a threat. “So,” the man said. “Whose company have you been keeping?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> This chapter includes self-destructive behavior and some suicidal ideation. Additionally, at the end of this chapter, Lukas is introduced again, who is, I will remind you, the reason for the non-con tag. 
> 
> We do be getting into it now


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for specific warnings

_“So. Whose company have you been keeping?”_

Jon went rigid at the question, his eyes scanning Martin’s face, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Martin showed none of the shock Jon had felt at hearing the question. Martin’s expression remained level and borderline uninterested, but Jon, from where he stood, could see the whites of Martin’s knuckles as he gripped the edge of the desk, beyond Lukas’ sight. 

And in that moment, Jon knew. He Knew there was a _reason_ Martin was wary of Lukas. A reason why he refused to show any hint of emotion in his presence, a reason why he’d frantically hidden Jon away. Jon knew it _existed,_ he just...couldn’t see it. It slipped through his fingers when he tried to know it properly, like smoke, like the fog that curled around the room. 

But Jon could feel the edges of it, awful and sharp and cold, and it was all tied up in Lukas. He thought of how Martin’s heart rate picked up at the mention of Lukas’ name, how his expression would flash cold or distant.

Martin merely looked at Lukas, now. Unshakeable, even with Lukas’ fingers under his chin and close to his throat, like a threat. The question Lukas had posed didn’t seem to ring in his ears like it did Jon’s. In fact, after a breath of tense silence, Martin sighed audibly, rolling his eyes. “You know I hate it when you’re vague, Peter,” he said blandly.

If Jon hadn’t known that Martin’s heart rate was picking up in the silence, he might have been convinced by the performance. Jon knew exactly the speed of Martin’s heart when they were together, had felt the steady thump of it against his chest when they were pressed so close they were hardly two distinct people. It beat far slower than a normal, human heartbeat, but Jon found he liked it. The steady, rhythmic beat of it, like the slow crash of waves on the shore. 

Now, Jon knew, it thumped in Martin’s chest as fast as Jon’s. Imperceptible, perhaps, to anyone who couldn’t just _know,_ but Jon couldn’t help but wait, tense, for Lukas’ answer. 

Lukas’ smile curved slightly wider as he leaned in closer. “Apologies,” he said, his voice so deceptively light as to set Jon’s teeth on edge, “I had thought I’d been rather clear.” Lukas’ fingers curled under Martin’s chin and his thumb pressed against Martin’s lower lip, brushing down over it. Martin didn’t react at all to the touch, but Jon saw a ghost of that cloudy fog in his eyes. “You’re _warm,_ ” Lukas said flatly, as if making a comment about the weather. The smile on his face, however, had fallen away, his eyes going half-lidded and cold. 

Martin’s grip on the desk tightened, almost imperceptibly. Jon saw his eyes study Lukas’ face for a moment, the look in them unreadable, before he asked, calmly, “am I not allowed to feed?”

Jon’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes flicked to Lukas, waiting for his reaction. It wasn’t quite a lie, but wasn’t quite the truth. Martin hadn’t fed from Jon in weeks. 

Lukas’ face was still for a few moments. The silence was agony, and every moment Jon was torn between doing as Martin had asked and intervening. Somehow. Jon admittedly didn’t know what he could do. Lukas was far bigger than him, and Jon had no idea how powerful he was. And Martin was afraid of him for a reason. 

It seemed Jon was safe from Lukas’ sight from where he was, behind this cloudy barrier Martin had built, but even though this was where Martin wanted him, he couldn’t help but feel utterly useless. 

After what felt like a lifetime, something in Lukas’ expression seemed to change. It was subtle, like the uptick of his mouth or the quirk of a brow, but the threatening air was gone as quickly as it had come. “Who?” Lukas asked, though it didn’t sound accusatory. It sounded almost amused. “Not the angry one with the dyed hair? Couldn’t be the Hunt bitch...” Lukas raised a brow, grin widening. “Elias’ pet?”

Jon felt his face flush, hot and angry, blood roaring in his ears. He almost missed Martin’s answer, quiet as it was, and it didn’t exactly help matters. Jon knew, he _knew,_ that Martin didn’t mean a thing he was saying, but the cold, clinical way Martin murmured, “he was so _very_ lonely,” still burrowed under his skin like a shard of ice.

“Oh, Martin,” Lukas said, so cheery and disgustingly fond it gave Jon whiplash, “I hope you didn’t take too much.”

“I never do,” Martin shot back flatly, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t like to play with my food like you do.”

Lukas made a mild tutting sound. “You really don’t. It speaks to a distinct lack of imagination. We both know it’s a good thing you look the way you do.”

That sparked another flood of anger in Jon’s blood. How dare he. How _dare_ Lukas speak to him like that. How dare he touch him like Martin was _his._ Where Jon vividly imagined his hands around Lukas’ throat, the only sign of emotion on Martin’s face was the tick of a muscle in his jaw. “Is there a reason you’ve stopped by, Peter?” he asked.

“Is it so hard to believe I missed you?”

“You don’t miss anyone.”

“No,” Lukas said easily, “I don’t.” Lukas’ fingers trailed across Martin’s cheek and into his curls. Abruptly, and without warning, his fingers tightened into a fist and he jerked Martin’s head back. The motion threw Martin off balance even as he tried to move with it. One hand flew back against the desk to brace himself and the other pressed against Lukas’ chest, but the desk immediately behind him meant he had nowhere to move. Martin’s neck bent to accommodate the pressure and the whimper of pain that escaped him had Jon moving before he could even think otherwise.

At his movement, a floorboard creaked under his foot. It was a quiet sound. Almost imperceptible, but from the way Lukas and Martin went abruptly still, he could tell they’d heard it. The silence that followed was deafening, and Jon forgot to breathe. Lukas’ eyes were cast in his direction, narrowed and scanning. 

Jon held very still, acutely aware of the wild thumping of Martin’s heart and the thoughts that sounded so loud Jon could hear them through the cloudy fog in his head—the mantra that went _no, no, no, no, no—_

Lukas’ eyes scanned the wall. He still didn’t see Jon, whatever manipulation over the Lonely Martin had cast over Jon held firm, but... 

For the briefest moment, Lukas’ eyes met his own, completely by chance. Jon felt like he’d been dunked in freezing water, his lungs tightening, his skin prickling with a cold that seeped down to his soul. Those eyes had him forgetting what warmth felt like, and anything he’d felt before the cold. 

It felt like drowning, it felt like he’d never feel, or see, or know anyone ever again—

Lukas abruptly jerked back and away from the desk, breaking eye contact. As soon as Lukas’ eyes were off him, Jon felt as though he could breathe again, and he fought the urge to gasp in air, still trying to keep quiet. Martin was straightening up, a cloudy sheen clearing from his eyes that Jon...hadn’t noticed. Martin adjusted his sweater with deft fingers that didn’t tremble at all, as if Lukas hadn’t just violently put his hands on him, and Lukas—

Lukas was looking down at his own arm with an almost curious expression, where a pen stuck straight out of his forearm, blood slowly staining through his coat. He glanced up at Martin and raised a brow. “Naughty,” Lukas murmured, yanking out the pen, dropping it to the ground.

It seemed Lukas had forgotten all about the slight sound Jon had made, his attention focused back on Martin.

“No more than you,” Martin shot back immediately, crossing his arms and leaning back against the desk. Where Jon expected to see anger or indignation on his face, he saw neither. Martin looked back at Lukas flatly. “We’re not feeding here.”

“No?” Lukas asked, a note of threat contrasting with the cheery tone.

“No,” Martin said. “It’s not exactly private. People have a habit of bursting in.”

“People like your Archivist?” Lukas asked, grin widening like a shark’s.

“Among others,” Martin replied coolly.

“Hm,” Lukas said, eyes looking Martin up and down. “He hasn’t been feeding you well, has he?” 

Jon’s breath caught in his chest, as a muscle in Martin’s jaw ticked. “I’ve managed perfectly fine, Peter. Lonely is lonely.”

“Mm, that’s not _quite_ true, though,” Lukas said, beginning to circle the desk, absently tracing his fingers over the statement spread across it. “Not with what Elias has made of him.”

Jon went very still, listening and watching so intently he barely breathed.

“All those fears tangled up in one body,” Lukas was saying, eyeing Martin as he circled, a bright smile on his face. “Can’t imagine it made for a pleasant experience. Not at all smooth going down. Like...crude cigarette smoke.”

For the briefest moment, where Lukas couldn’t see, Martin’s eyes flickered over to Jon and held there. Jon couldn’t, for the life of him, read the expression in them. When Lukas drew closer, Martin’s eyes blinked away, at the wall opposite. “It did the job,” he replied flatly.

“ _What_ a pitiful qualifier,” Lukas said, taking a seat on the desk just behind Martin. He reached out and traced the line of Martin’s neck and shoulder with a finger, a barely-there touch, but Jon couldn’t draw his eyes away from it. Or the way the slightest touch from Lukas had a tiny cloud of fog escaping Martin’s lips like a sigh. 

Distantly, Jon registered his skin was growing hot, that he was shaking, but he couldn’t draw his eyes away from Lukas’ fingers tracing icy lines into Martin’s skin. 

“Peter,” Martin warned, his voice slightly strained. 

Lukas’ fingers trailed up Martin’s throat and traced over the line of Martin’s jaw, guiding his head to turn. Martin’s eyes clouded over, and Lukas leaned in to catch the breath of fog that escaped him. 

It was a bit like watching a trainwreck unfold right before his eyes. Jon couldn’t look away, even though the urge to do so crawled over his skin like a physical thing. He watched as Lukas plowed forward and took, and watched as Martin just... _let_ him. 

When Lukas pulled away—and it was _Lukas_ who pulled away, not Martin—he remained close, his nose nearly brushing Martin’s. Martin’s eyes were clouded over entirely, almost as if they were sightless, a slack-jawed expression on his face. Fog left his mouth on the exhale. 

“Better,” Lukas murmured, his own eyes cloudy, “isn’t it?”

Martin blinked, once, twice, the fog receding somewhat. His eyes drifted, down, over the floor, in the direction Jon was standing.

“You seem distracted,” Lukas said, casting an unreadable glance in Jon’s direction, following Martin’s brief look over. Though Martin snapped back to look at Lukas almost immediately, Lukas’ gaze lingered in Jon’s direction. There was a strange kind of...amusement that played at the corners of Lukas’ mouth that didn’t quite match the coldness of his eyes. It made a chill run down Jon’s spine, along with a creeping suspicion. Lukas couldn’t see him. He couldn’t, or—or else he would _act_ on it. 

Right?

Lukas’ eyes didn’t meet Jon’s again—merely drifted over the wall behind him as if looking for something idly before settling back on Martin. It lasted for only a few seconds, but felt like lifetimes.

The maelstrom of Martin’s thoughts had long gone quiet behind the fog, but Jon knew his heart still pounded like a drum against his chest. 

Jon knew this, and yet, he couldn’t ignore the way Martin’s eyes dropped to Lukas’ mouth. He saw Martin shake his head, once. “Just hungry,” Martin said softly.

Lukas tilted his head, his smile widening. “Well,” he said, as the fog curled and coalesced tighter around them, “let’s take care of that, shall we?”

And then they were gone, and Jon was irrefutably and utterly alone.

* * *

Jon hated waiting. Loathed it. He’d learned early on he needed to feel busy to feel useful, and if he was doing something he wasn’t caught up in the storm of worries and anxieties in his head. If there was nothing to fill his time with, if there was only _waiting,_ those thoughts flooded him, a downward spiral of what could be and what was and the knowledge that, really, he couldn’t do a thing about any of it.

Martin struck him as someone who was good at waiting. Martin was patient. Calm. Time could flow around him slow, like molasses, and he wouldn’t seem to mind. 

Martin wasn’t here, though.

It had been days. Days of waiting anxiously, days of reaching out futilely to try to see through the impenetrable cloud of the Lonely. When it was clear he couldn’t reach Martin, wherever he was, Jon couldn’t stop his imagination from filling in the gaps.

He buried himself in work, trying to ignore the way Daisy gave him sideways glances, like she knew something was wrong but also that he didn’t want to give voice to it.

No, he didn’t want to give voice to the fact that he couldn’t rid the memory of Lukas’ hands on Martin’s skin from his mind. It flashed behind his eyes whenever he closed them, and fueled something behind his ribs, angry and possessive and aching.

He thought about the first time he’d ever seen Martin, with Peter Lukas’ arm around his shoulders and his fingers brushing Martin’s cheek, and felt sick. 

Jon was angry, and he was angry that he was angry. Martin hadn’t promised him anything. Jon knew Martin wasn’t his. He had always known that. 

Nevermind that Jon loved him. 

Ever since that first day, Jon had understood that a part of Martin was tied up in Lukas. It was easier to cast that knowledge out of his mind when Martin’s arms were around him, but...he’d always known at the back of his mind. It had never seemed important, though, when Martin looked at him softly, and held him, and pressed kisses to his hair—

It had felt like Martin was his. So this...unwelcome reminder that he _wasn’t,_ that Martin and Lukas were connected in a way Jon didn’t understand...

It _stung._ And he hated not understanding more than he hated waiting.

He tried to work, but his thoughts caught on the way Martin’s eyes clouded over, and the way his lips parted slightly, and the way he’d swayed into Lukas almost unconsciously—

Jon pressed his palms against his eyes, screwed shut tightly, but it did nothing to banish the image.

He didn’t get much done that day.

* * *

The day Martin returned was otherwise uneventful. Jon was in the middle of a statement when he felt it, an awareness of a new presence in the archive, faint like a flickering flame. His reading stuttered to a stop, his breath leaving his lungs. The recorder still turned in the silence, in which Jon turned all his focus on Martin’s presence like a beacon. 

The recorder still ran when Jon pushed away from his desk so quickly his chair clattered to the floor, and the recorder whirred behind him as he raced out of his office. 

When he reached Martin’s door, he could see the familiar curls of fog underneath, the wafting cold that shouldn’t have been welcoming but _was._ He curled a trembling hand into a fist and knocked on the door. “Martin?”

Jon waited, but there was no reply. He looked down at the curling fog, his heart climbing up to his throat. He knocked again, louder. “Martin?” Again, there was no answer. Jon’s heart threatened to leap out of his chest. Making a decision, he set his hand on the freezing doorknob and turned it, entering the room.

Martin was sitting at the desk, head propped up on his palm, eyes distant. When Jon entered, he blinked and looked up at him. His eyes were a very pale blue, his hair looked leached of color, his skin white. It made the fingerprint-like bruises around his throat stand out all the more. 

“Oh,” Martin said, without much inflection. “Hello, Jon.”

Jon was stumbling towards him before he’d expressly given his legs instructions to do so, his eyes caught by the bruises the Eye told him would match Peter Lukas’ fingers perfectly and, really, would have required a significant amount of pressure to achieve that color—

“What did he do to you?” Jon asked, his voice shaking with the tidal wave of rage that rose in his chest. 

Martin looked up at him, eyes searching Jon’s face as Jon’s fingers trembled against his cheeks, the skin there icy. 

Martin sighed, gently wrapping his hands around Jon’s wrists and bringing his hands down. “Jon...don’t.” 

“Don’t? He _hurt_ you.”

“Jon, it’s fine—”

“It’s _not_ fine, Martin,” Jon snapped. “ _Look_ at you.”

“Yes, Jon,” Martin replied, voice a little harder now, a little colder. “Look at me.”

So, Jon swallowed the immediate retort, took a breath, and did. He looked closer, and saw that despite the fact that Martin’s skin was pale, his cheeks didn’t have the hollows that they’d had before. The slight dark circles under his eyes that Jon remembered from before were gone. His eyes looked clear and sharp. He looked...fuller. 

Jon took a step back, and Martin’s eyes flickered, glancing away. 

“I don’t understand,” Jon heard himself say. 

Martin met his eyes again, his mouth a flat line. “Leave it, Jon.”

“Is it worth him doing that to you?” Jon asked, reeling, feeling sick when the Eye decided to inform him that there were far more bruises that Jon couldn’t see under his clothes. “I don’t—you’re _afraid_ of him, but you went with him—”

“You weren’t ever meant to see that,” Martin murmured, and Jon reeled back. 

“I— _why?”_

“Because,” Martin said, inflectionless. “You’d start to look at me like you are now.”

Any residual anger drained away from Jon as the breath left his lungs. Martin didn’t even look particularly upset, just looked...flat. “Martin,” Jon murmured, “I’m...I just want to understand. Do you _want_ to be with him?”

Martin didn’t answer for a long moment, his eyes drifting over the desk aimlessly. Finally, he said, softly, “it’s not that simple.”

“It is—”

“It isn’t, Jon,” Martin said, looking up at him. 

Jon stared at him helplessly. “Why not?” 

Martin’s eyes drifted away from his. 

“Martin—”

“Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Martin asked, his voice approaching coldness. 

“Because!” Jon exclaimed, his heart aching in his chest, “I—I care about you, and he clearly _doesn’t._ ”

“What do you want, a _medal?_ ” Martin asked flatly. 

Jon took another step back, the words hitting like a blow. It wasn’t as if Martin had spoken with vitriol, but...almost the opposite, a lack of affect, a carelessness that stung. 

Martin blinked, his expression flickering. His throat bobbed up and down. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t...” He trailed off, looking away. “Maybe...maybe you should go.”

Jon tried to ignore the stab of hurt that lanced through him. “Do you want me to go?” he asked. He would, if Martin wanted him to.

Martin was looking down at his hands in his lap. “I’m just not exactly pleasant company right now,” he said quietly, after a moment. “You...you can go.”

Jon stared at him. “Martin,” Jon asked softly, “do you want me to leave, or...do you think _I_ want to leave?”

Martin looked up at him, searching his face. “Don’t you?” he asked after a moment.

Jon shook his head, his throat tightening at the very thought of leaving Martin’s side. “No. I...I understand if you don’t want to talk about Lukas. But if you...if you don’t want me to go, then I’d like to stay here with you.”

Martin stared up at him, a sheen blinking its way into his eyes. “Oh,” he breathed.

“Is that...alright?” Jon asked weakly. “I was worried about you, I...” He swallowed the tightness of his throat and murmured, “I really missed you.” 

“Oh,” Martin said again, softer this time. “I’m sorry, I didn’t...I didn’t mean to make you...worry.”

“Why...?” Jon began, trailing off before he could let himself ask the question.

Martin raised a brow. “Why did I go with him?” Martin guessed.

Hesitantly, Jon nodded.

Martin took a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “I...I’ve gone to Peter before, when...when he or I needed to feed. I wouldn’t have, this time. I didn’t need it or want it yet, not really, but I just...I needed to draw Peter’s attention away.”

“From me?” Jon asked, feeling sick at the very thought.

Martin nodded. “He knew something was different. I wanted to get away before he noticed you.”

“I don’t...” Jon began, floundering, “Martin, I don’t want you to protect me at your own risk.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said again, but before Jon could tell him he didn’t need to apologize, for _anything,_ Martin continued, “but I would do anything to shield you from him.”

Jon stared at him, his voice leaving him. He wanted to ask why. He wanted to ask what Martin was so afraid of. He wanted to ask what Lukas had _done to him,_ what kind of hold he had over him _._ But Jon had told Martin he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want to answer. So he held his tongue. 

Martin tilted his head, looking Jon over. “You still have questions,” Martin surmised.

“I...yes,” Jon answered, swallowing a sigh. “But—you’re not obligated to tell me. If you don’t want to.”

Martin met Jon’s eyes, level, the look in them far too calm and far too soft. “ _Ask_ me,” Martin said. 

Jon blinked at him, taken aback by the purposeful emphasis to the word ‘ask.’ Martin couldn’t mean... “What?”

“You should know. About Peter. There’s a reason,” Martin said, “that I’ve been with him for so long. But it’s...it’s difficult for me to hold onto, it’s—” He swallowed, dropping his eyes for a moment, and Jon was struck by a horrible thought.

He thought about Martin’s fear, and how the reason for it was entwined with Lukas, obscured by mist and fog, so very hard to grasp. “You don’t know why either?” Jon breathed.

“I...I know,” Martin said, hesitantly, “but it’s...faded. N-Numbed over. And I...” He trailed off, looking away. “To be honest, I didn’t much care until after I met you,” he admitted, with a quiet honesty that shook Jon to his core. “It would...it would just be easier if you _asked_ me,” Martin said, meeting Jon’s eyes pointedly. “Ask me what happened after I met Peter.”

Jon took a shaky breath, trying to push down that part of him that rose up already hungry for whatever he would hear. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Martin looked at Jon, his eyes tracing over the features of his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Jon saw him take a deep breath, and then nod, once, the look in his eyes resolute. 

Jon swallowed, the Eye already excitedly suggesting the phrasing he could use in his head, but he waved those thoughts away. He crossed the scant distance between them, reaching out for Martin’s hand. Martin blinked up at him when he did, the tension around his mouth softening. 

Martin’s hand was cold, but slowly warmed at Jon’s touch. 

“Jon?” Martin asked, gently prompting.

Jon took a breath, his thumb brushing over the back of Martin’s hand. He met Martin’s eyes—paler than they had been, but still _his,_ still the eyes of the person he loved—and asked, with the gentlest touch of compulsion he could manage, “ _what happened when you first met Peter Lukas?"_

And Martin began to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Lukas is physically and emotionally abusive toward Martin, and later in the chapter further rape/noncon is implied  
> I would like to add here, though, that while this fic deals with very heavy themes, I will never be graphically describing any noncon beyond kissing, everything else is either hinted at or implied.
> 
> So...next chapter we find out what happened to Martin Blackwood to make him Lonely.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, if you guys thought you hated Peter Lukas last chapter...
> 
> See the end notes if you'd like specific warnings for this chapter.

It was raining. Martin had always liked the rain. 

Even rain like this.

The downpour was torrential, on the cusp of angry, as if the heavens were pouring their rage down onto the earth. The water was cold, and stung where raindrops splashed his face. 

The water of the Thames below him swirled and churned with it. He watched the eddys and waves with distant fascination, and wondered if it would hurt very much, hitting the water from this height. He wondered if he’d sink fast, with the rain already weighing heavy on his clothing, soaking him through. 

For a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of imagining it. The dull smack of his body hitting the water, the pain wrenching his breath from his lungs and the water filling them back up

Water-logged and heavy, as he sank into oblivion. 

He shivered, arms clutching tighter around himself. He didn’t particularly want to die, but he couldn’t help but think about what it must be like. He imagined it would be gentle, in the aftermath. Quiet. 

On days like today, with his meager severance package burning a hole in his pocket, it was a louder call than he was used to. 

He wouldn’t, not with his mother still ill at home, even as she festered in her resentment for him. But the thoughts still clung to him like his damp clothing, seeping through to his bones. He imagined, for a moment, what she would think. He couldn’t imagine she’d mourn overmuch. But he spitefully imagined the realization creeping into her bones—that she would be unable to keep up the payments to the hospital herself, that without him she’d wither away and be mourned by no one in return. Martin knew he wasn’t loved, but he fantasized her acknowledging that he was, at least, _needed._

A part of him, the part of him still fixated on the raging movement of the water below, wanted, desperately, to be selfish. To hurl away what was left of him. He was tired of carving out pieces of himself and offering them to others, hoping he might be given something, anything, in return. 

But he wasn’t quite spiteful enough to do it, to stagger over the railing and just let himself fall.

He sighed, stepping back from the railing, and collided with something solid. Martin jolted, spinning around, and had to crane his head up to look at the man that had seemingly come out of nowhere. The man that looked back at him wore a smile that looked white enough to be fake, his eyes the palest blue that Martin had ever seen. His smile had thoughts of bleached whale bone coming to Martin’s mind, his eyes like the indifferent blue of the ocean before a wave swallowed you whole. Martin took a step back, unease creeping up his spine. 

It was late—Martin had been wandering aimlessly for a while, prolonging the inevitable return home—but the bridge suddenly seemed far more...abandoned than it should have, even for the hour. The man before him, dressed in a long, wool coat that looked as though it cost more than what Martin was wearing put together, with the rest of his carefully cultivated appearance, reeked of old money. This man hardly looked like he should have been passing in a Royce at the hour, let alone taking a stroll and running into Martin. 

“Apologies,” the man said, as if he could sense the course of Martin’s thoughts, “it’s a ritual of mine to walk the riverside, and I couldn’t help but notice you looked a bit...” the man’s grip on the handle of his umbrella shifted, as he gave Martin an appraising look, and he finished, with a slight widening of his smile, “ _l_ _onely._ ”

“I’m fine,” Martin said, instinctually. The sentiment was weakened, somewhat, when he shivered at a brutal gust of wind. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a creeping roiling fog settling around their ankles, setting in the chill. 

“Are you?” the other man asked, though it didn’t sound like a question.

Martin took another step back, a polite smile tight on his face. “I am. If you’ll excuse me, I really have to be going—”

“Home to your mother?”

Martin stopped in his tracks, feeling as though the world had suddenly gone off kilter, the ground tilting from underneath him. “What?”

“Because, correct me if I’m wrong, of course,” the man said, taking a step closer to him, prompting another shaky step back on his part, “you don’t really want to go to her, do you?”

Martin floundered, fear and confusion and the aching chill wrapping around him all at once, making him feel slow and clumsy and stupid. “I—I don’t—”

“You’re a kind of lonely with her, certainly,” the man continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “you feel alone even as she looks at you, because it’s with nothing but scorn. But it’s not the lonely you prefer, is it?”

Martin took another step back, only to find himself backed up against the railing, the cold metal digging into his back. The man did not pause in his slow, casual approach, and Martin couldn’t look away from the blue soullessness of his eyes or the mist streaming up from his throat. 

“No,” the man continued, close enough to touch, close enough to cover him from the onslaught of rain with his umbrella with a tilt of his hand, though he did neither. “You much prefer the loneliness of rainy days, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes lazily roaming over Martin’s face with a kind of muted, barely-there interest. “Days where you can walk aimlessly and people don’t much give a second look, don’t look up from their hurried race home to frown and ask if you’re alright. Days when avoiding knowing looks is easy. Days when you feel as though, if the rain poured just a little harder and the wind blew just a little stronger, you could disappear into it as if you never existed at all.”

Martin’s grip on the rail tightened to keep his hands from shaking, the fog pressing at his skin around him, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering as he blinked rain from his eyes. The pour of it was picking up now, roiling the water below, stinging his skin. “Who...who are you?” he asked shakily, his voice so quiet in the storm he didn’t think he’d be heard.

But he was heard, given the way the man’s smile widened. “Peter Lukas. Pleasure to meet you. And you?”

“You know all that, but you don’t know my name?” Martin couldn’t help but snipe. 

The expression on Lukas’ face didn’t change, but the fog abruptly dropped in temperature, the tendrils of it crawling over his skin with more insistence. “I would take it as a compliment,” Lukas said easily, “that I want to know it at all. I’m not so much in the habit of taking names as I am...stripping them away.”

Martin stared at him, wariness and fear carving holes in his stomach. It didn’t sound like a threat, not with the easy, almost cheerful tone, but something about the way the fog raked at him, like it wanted nothing more to burrow into him and twist and swallow...

“Martin,” he answered weakly, flinching away from a freezing tendril of fog that brushed at his cheek. “Martin Blackwood.”

Peter Lukas hummed, that smile never letting up. “Good boy.”

Martin couldn’t quite control the expression that passed across his face upon hearing that, but he knew that Lukas saw. 

“Tell me,” Lukas said, leaning in closer, a hand reaching out to the railing just beside Martin’s own. The man’s eyes flitted to the water, far underneath them. “Were you going to jump?”

Martin swallowed nervously, dropping his eyes. “No,” he said, not entirely a lie. He wasn’t going to. But, oh, had he thought about it.

Lukas hummed again, drawing back to look at him. There was enough space between them now Martin finally thought he could breathe. “Probably for the best,” Lukas said, barely audible over the rain, “the Vast likely wouldn’t have taken you, with the fog weighing you down.”

Martin stared at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What?”

Lukas’ smile widened. “To be learned in time, Martin.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. It sounded like a promise. He quickly side-stepped, away from the arm that had bracketed him against the railing, trying to put distance between them. “I’m sorry—I—lovely to meet you, but I really do have to be going—” He quickly turned, but found his path abruptly blocked by an impenetrable, rolling wall of fog, so dense he could only see about a foot in before the rest of the bridge disappeared. He stared, thinking how easily one could get lost in there, how quickly fog could consume, and thought it would be a very bad idea to go any further. 

Slowly, he turned around, looking back where Peter leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Now, now, Martin,” he said, “I thought we’d established that you didn’t want to go home.”

“I have to,” Martin said, his voice soft enough it almost disguised the shaking. “She...she needs me—”

“I think we both know she would rather you never came home,” Lukas said, matter of factly.

Martin winced, the words like a blow. “You don’t—”

“I do. And so do you.”

Martin swallowed around the lump that had risen to his throat, glad of the rain and the way it made the tears springing to his eyes far less obvious. “Still,” he choked out, after a moment. “She needs money, at least. She can’t work.”

“And you need some. Is that it, what brought you here? One more dead-end job, where you were the disposable one? One of the poor sods let go first?”

“I don’t need charity,” Martin grit out, a sudden rush of anger making him forget the cold, for a moment, “if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Not at all,” Lukas said easily, taking another prowling step toward him. With the fog bracketing him at all sides except the railing, Martin didn’t take a step back, much as he wanted to. “In fact,” Lukas continued, “how would you like a job?”

Martin stared at him, taken aback. “A job?”

“On the Tundra. My ship. Recently I’ve had an...” the man sighed, his eyes looking skyward as he said, “ _unexpected_ opening.”

Martin narrowed his eyes, suspicion curling in his gut. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, taking a step closer, driving Martin a step closer to the railing, “your predecessor didn’t _cut it._ And he was let go. I’m sure you’re familiar with the process, Martin.”

Martin ignored the barb, all too wary of the railing at his back and the press of the fog. The rain stormed harder over them, but Lukas seemed utterly unperturbed by it all. “You don’t even know me,” Martin said, unable to keep the helpless confusion out of his tone. 

“I fail to see how that’s important,” Lukas said, taking another step toward him. The railing pressed at Martin’s back again. “It’ll be a trial run. We’ll see if you’re a fit.”

“I...I don’t...” Martin floundered, glancing back at the water behind him nervously, as Lukas took another step toward him. “I—I’ve never even been on a boat. I can’t even swim.”

“Both easily taught,” Lukas responded, looking down at him. “It’s well-paid. You’ll never want for money again, never have to worry about your mother’s expenses.”

Martin eyed the encroaching fog warily, looking between it and the cold, apathetic look in Lukas’ eyes. “Are...are you actually giving me a choice?”

Lukas sighed, shaking his head slightly as if Martin had said something particularly stupid. “Martin. There is always a choice.”

Martin took a shuddering breath that failed to steady him. “Then, I appreciate the offer, but I’d like to decline.”

For the briefest moment, something like displeasure flashed across Lukas’ face before it smoothed away, like a pass of fog. “I see,” he said. “It’s a shame. You have such...potential,” he said, looking over him in a way that made Martin want to crawl out of his skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering with the cold and the fear that still thrummed through him. “Thank you for the offer.”

Peter Lukas smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Of course, Martin,” he said, but he didn’t move out of the way, and the fog didn’t recede.

That fear started to climb up his throat, tightening around it like a vice, making it hard to breathe. “I’d like to go now, please,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He didn’t quite manage it.

Lukas blinked, tilting his head and smiling wider, and this time, genuine amusement crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Who said anything about that?”

Martin’s blood ran cold and that fear morphed into terror when the fog grew thicker, obscuring everything but the two of them and the water rushing below. The wind blew at him with a strength that was not natural, the rain flying at his face like pieces of cut glass, stinging his skin. The railing behind him creaked, and, like it was made of nothing but paper, crumpled with the force of the wind, bending and breaking off backwards into the water. 

Martin stumbled, losing his balance as close to the edge as he had been, scrabbling for purchase for anything that might keep him from falling. A strangled shout escaped him as he began to fall, his arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to keep his balance, his stomach turning with vertigo. The water rushed, black and unforgiving beneath him, as he fell back—

When a hand reached out and grabbed the collar of his sweater, keeping him from falling any further. Martin mindlessly grabbed at the wrist, his breaths coming fast with terror, his feet just barely finding purchase on the edge. 

When his eyes found Peter Lukas, he saw his eyes were cloudy like the fog curling around him, saw it leaving his mouth and nose as he breathed. “Shame,” Lukas said, a little distantly, “you could have been perfect.”

“No,” Martin gasped out, trying to pull himself back onto solid ground, but the man’s arm refused to bend, solid as steel. Martin gripped his arm in a death grip, desperate not to fall. “Please, please, I’ll—I’ll go with you. I’ll take the job, I’ll do whatever you want, _please—_ ”

Lukas’ smile widened, but it was an indulgent, patronizing thing. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Deep down?”

“No—” Martin gasped out, but Lukas let his grip slacken ever so slightly, sending Martin falling a horrifying inch that stole every word from his throat.

“Part of making a choice is living with the consequences, I’m afraid, Martin,” he said, unspeakably calm. 

“Please,” Martin breathed, terrified sobs wracking his lungs, his rain-slick grip slipping. “Please, please don’t—”

But, of course, Lukas let go, and his wrist slipped through Martin’s fingers, and he fell. 

The cold, unforgiving surface of the water stole the breath from his lungs when he hit it, as he’d imagined. Brackish, muddy water filled them back up when he instinctively gasped for air. He coughed, and flailed, and swallowed more water.

And he drowned.

* * *

He drowned, until he opened his eyes again to a cloudy sky and the sound of an engine and the ache of a body remembering how to work again. Martin stared at the sky uncomprehendingly, aching and cold and sopping wet on the rough wood of the floor. He breathed mechanically, driven by the distant memory that this was what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Rise, fall. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. The air stung his throat, marred by the memory of salt and brine. 

He registered the sounds of footsteps around him, and a cacophony of other noises. A constant, chugging engine. Short snippets of voices that could barely have been called conversations with how brief they were. 

Someone stepped over him uncaringly and he blinked, trying to follow their path but getting dizzy with the movement.

Black boots slowly stepped into view and stopped there. The only pair that stopped, while all around movement continued, as if Martin wasn’t lying in the way like a beached whale. Martin looked up, and saw Peter Lukas looking down at him. 

Martin scrambled away instinctually, terror tight in his throat, no thought in his mind other than _away, away, away._ His limbs hardly cooperated with him, aching and stiff from a cold that had sunk down to his bones, but he managed to move back far enough that something dug at his back, stopping him, while Lukas just watched on. 

Martin froze, glancing back and caught a glimpse of rushing water before he had to turn away, bile rising in his throat. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to breathe, as he made sense of where he was. The sound of the engine, the bustle of people around him, water rushing fast and unforgiving below. “So,” he said, his voice a rasping, painful thing. Abruptly, the memory of salt water rushing down his throat came to his mind, and he fought down a swell of nausea. After a moment, he managed, “decided to hire me after all?”

“On the contrary,” Lukas said, looking down at him with his hands in his coat pockets, as if they were doing nothing but chatting about the weather, “I fully intended to let you drown. But the Lonely took a particular interest in you, and, well. Our patron doesn’t let the End touch us. That would be far too easy an escape.” His eyes became more shrewd as he looked Martin over. “It seems you are of some value after all.”

Martin stared at him, exhaustion and hunger and confusion warring. Finally, he asked, tiredly, “what does that _mean?”_

“It means,” Lukas said, looking down at him with that false smile, “welcome aboard the Tundra, Martin Blackwood.”

* * *

It went like this. Martin begged Lukas to sail into port, to let him off, and Lukas, amusedly, said no, and Martin waited what he thought was a suitable amount of time before asking again. 

It went on for days. Martin truly didn’t know what Lukas was playing at. Martin refused to do any work, thinking at least that’d get him chucked off the boat and away from the awful place, but Lukas never seemed to be particularly bothered by it. He tried talking to the crew, asking if there were any lifeboats he could use, or if any of them knew if they were due to dock any time soon—surely a shipping vessel had to dock eventually?—but speaking to them was like...trying to grasp onto sand, or smoke, or...or fog. Martin could catch their attention for a moment with a word or a tug on a coat, but a few seconds into his frantic questions and their attention would begin to drift, eyes skirting away, then bodies turning, brushing past or turning on their heel as if he wasn’t even there.

They didn’t even seem to _eat._ There was a mess hall, but it was perpetually empty. Martin had scavenged the seemingly abandoned kitchens and found some dried meat and crackers that still seemed edible, but the scraps did nothing to soothe the hungry ache in his stomach that twisted and gnawed at him as the days stretched on. 

After a few days, he burst into Lukas’ office, and confronted him about it. “If your intention is to starve me out, then I’ll starve.”

“Martin,” Lukas greeted, leaning back in his chair and regarding him mildly, “are we still going on about this?”

Martin glared at him, and didn’t respond. Lukas’ smile only widened. “I can assure you, Martin, it is the furthest thing from my mind to starve you.”

“You’ll forgive me,” Martin grit out, “if I don’t believe you.”

Lukas leaned back in his chair and simply looked at him, that small smile still resting on his face. “There’s a storm coming,” he said, finally.

Martin frowned at him. “So?”

“So,” Lukas said, eyes bright, “you’ll feed tonight.”

* * *

The ship rocked with the waves, tilting one way and then the other, rolling so far to one side Martin almost thought they would capsize. 

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the movement, or the pitch black expanse of the sea once the sun sank. The lights on the boat barely broke through the darkness, and, as Martin followed Lukas onto the deck with stumbling steps and he looked out, he could almost imagine there was nothing but the dark and the black. Nothing but them, the only things to exist.

Martin watched the crew bustle around, coordinated even though no one ever gave directions or said more than a few words at a time. Lukas walked purposely to the side of the ship, where more than a few crew members had congregated, and Martin followed cautiously, unease twisting his stomach. There was something about the other men’s faces as they looked out into the water. They looked more intent on one thing than Martin had ever seen them, their pale eyes unwavering and hungry. 

Swallowing roughly, Martin followed their gazes’ but could only see the pitch black and the crests of rolling waves as they hit the sides. Until, suddenly, another cresting wave brought a lifeboat into view of the lights, with two frantically waving figures inside. 

“Oh my god,” Martin breathed, his eyes locked on them as they came closer to the boat.

“Exactly right, Martin,” Lukas said beside him, though when Martin looked at him, his eyes never left the small lifeboat below them.

The boat was suddenly a bustle of activity, crew members deploying a ladder, and working to attach the lifeboat to the Tundra. Martin watched them work wide-eyed, a feeling of looming dread carving through his stomach as he watched the two survivors slowly, shakily, make their way up the boat. 

It only grew when he looked over at Lukas, and saw that glint of hunger in his eyes. 

The two survivors finally stumbled over the side, dripping wet and shaking with the cold and the rain. The older one, in his mid-forties with a face pinched with worry, looked around wide-eyed, while the younger one—so young, younger than Martin, barely looked older than 20—kept behind, keeping his face down. 

Martin’s stomach twisted and ached as he looked at them. He was shaking, trembling, but he didn’t know why. Hunger gnawed at him, his vision blurring just the slightest bit, and for a moment—

For a moment, he thought he could see breaths of fog leaving the two newcomers’ mouths as they panted, thick and cold, straight from their lungs.

Surely a trick of the light.

“Thank you,” the older one was saying, looking between the crew members that surrounded them, “it all happened s-so fast, we—we didn’t know there would be a storm, o-our boat took on water—”

“The very least we could do,” Lukas said, stepping before him as his crew parted the way, but Martin could only stare at the faces of the crew, as still as he’d ever seen them, every eye locked on the two newcomers. 

“We—we can of course pay you,” the older man said, visibly trying to regain some composure as he looked up at Lukas. “For the passage to shore.” 

The younger one at his side was looking at the crew around them with widening eyes, seeming to notice something was wrong, his breath coming shorter, filling the air around him with fog—that...wasn’t right, but Martin could not blink the sight away—and a sweet, almost sickly sweet smell filled the air, sharp with fear. It should have repulsed him, but...it only served to make his stomach clench and his hunger race to his throat.

“No payment necessary,” Lukas said jovially, smiling like a shark. 

The older man finally seemed to notice the blank, hungry gazes of those around them, a little too close. He took a cautious step back, blinking up at Lukas, his expression twisting in confusion and the beginnings of unease. “I...sorry?” 

“That’s not necessary either,” Lukas said, taking a step toward him. The man took an answering step back, his arm wrapping around the younger one, but he backed up into a crewmate and jolted away. His eyes darted around at the faces around him, apathetic and cold. He looked back at Lukas, his eyes wide, clutching the younger one in a grip that looked almost painful. 

“Please,” he said, his voice tight with fear, “if—if you’d just let us off at the next port—“

Lukas abruptly blew a gust of thick fog into the man’s face, cutting him off. When the fog faded, Martin saw the man’s eyes were cloudy, sightless, and he looked, suddenly, listless on his feet, lilting and confused. 

“Dad?” the younger one asked, grabbing his father’s arm and looking into his face, but the older man didn’t even seem to hear, his eyes looking aimless, brow furrowed in confusion. “Dad?!”

One of the crew members yanked the younger one away, ignoring his cries and his struggling, utterly dispassionate. 

The older man breathed out fog when his voice trembled, weakly, “where...where am I? What...what’s happening?”

The crew, almost in tandem, looked to Lukas and waited, hungrily. The only sound in the silence was the younger one’s shouts, and the older man’s whimpering. Wordlessly, Lukas gave a single nod.

And the crew descended.

The air filled with fog as the crew dragged the older man to a raised area of the deck and laid him down there, leaning over him as fog streamed from his mouth and nose endlessly, as the younger one twisted in the crewmates’ grip and screamed and cried.

Lukas took the younger one’s arm, his face utterly calm, and suddenly the younger one went quiet, eyes clouding, legs trembling and giving out, his knees crashing to the floor. He didn’t even wince, just stared sightlessly, fog leaving his gaping mouth on the exhale.

Lukas looked up at Martin and smiled. “For you,” he said.

Martin shook his head, searching for the horror, anger, he knew he must have felt, somewhere, but everything was overridden by the ache in his stomach and the sweet smell of fog curling around him. “I don’t understand,” he managed.

“You do though, don’t you?” Lukas said easily, “can’t you taste it already? All that lovely loneliness just waiting for you to take?”

Martin tried to draw his eyes away from the stream of fog that filled the air in front of the younger man’s face, but found he couldn’t. He could smell it, the sweet ache of loneliness. It smelled like the air early in the morning on the docks when the rest of the world slept, the sharp tang of sweat, like the stolen whiff of a woman’s perfume that he would never have up close.

“He’s had quite a lonely life this one,” Lukas said, sounding distantly pleased. He jerked the man’s head up by his hair, looking absently down at his face. “Mother died during childbirth, left school early to keep the money up, no friends.” Lukas looked at him. “I promised you a meal, didn’t I?”

He did. He had, and Martin...

Martin was so very hungry. 

For a moment, he could do nothing but eye the fog, his mouth watering. For a moment, forgetting every reservation he might have had, he asked, his voice trembling, “how?”

Lukas smiled. “The lonely fear already there is easiest to start with,” he said, “as he wonders if he’ll ever see another person he knows again. Then, you can take from the memories touched with that loneliness.” His smiled widened. “Or, you can take from the memories that aren’t. Strip away what he is and wait for the loneliness to fill the space again, and take from that.

“The thing about the Lonely,” he continued, looking down at the man appreciatively, “is that there is _so_ very much of it. You can take it, when it’s there. And you can make it.”

Martin swallowed around the dryness of his throat, watching the stream of fog that left the man’s mouth, just waiting for him to take it, fill his lungs with it like the rest of them. Martin was so empty he ached, and the fog was just waiting for him, beckoning, begging to fill his lungs and run through his veins. 

He took a step toward them, and Lukas’ smile widened, his grip in the man’s hair tightening. But the man let out a whimper, a tiny noise, but so crammed full of fear and confusion that it stopped Martin in his tracks. He blinked, shaking his head, even as his stomach twisted. “No,” he murmured.

Lukas stared, his brow slowly furrowing. “What?”

Martin met his eyes, narrowing his own. “I’m not going to.”

Lukas stared at him for a moment more, before his eyes rolled skyward and he sighed explosively. Carelessly, he threw the man to the ground. Martin winced at the crack of his head on the floor, sick to his stomach when he just...lay there, his eyes still clouded over.

“Really, Martin,” Lukas said, stepping over the man as if he wasn’t even there, “this is becoming irritating.”

“So let me go,” Martin grit out, glaring at him even as he stepped closer and loomed over him.

Lukas laughed, shaking his head and tilting it, his expression patronizing. “Don’t you understand yet? There’s nowhere you can go where you’ll escape that hunger now.”

“Then I’ll _starve_ ,” Martin spat back.

Lukas looked down at him for a moment more, before shrugging. “Fine,” he said easily. 

Martin blinked at him. “What? What do you— _ow_ ,” Martin gasped out, when Lukas grabbed his arm with a grip like a vice. He struggled against it when Lukas pulled him along closer to the railing, fear flooding him, his feet skidding on the wet floor. “Let— _let go—“_

“It’s a lesson you’ll have to learn sooner or later, Martin,” Lukas was saying over his protests, glancing at him dispassionately. “You want to starve? Fine. But if you do not feed the Lonely, the Lonely will feed on you.” They reached the railing, despite every inch of Martin’s struggling. “And the Lonely will never let you die.”

Martin had an awful sense of deja vu, when waves rushed against the boat in his periphery, through the overwhelming fear. “Wait—wait, Peter, please—” he begged, grabbing at Lukas’ arm, and when he did, when he touched skin, he felt...something flood his lungs that wasn’t air as he gasped a breath. It was weighty and cold, and for a moment, numbed the panic completely over. 

It wasn’t quite calm, but rather, the absence of any feeling at all. 

For a moment, the aching hunger abated. 

Martin blinked, going slack with surprise, and when he looked at Lukas, for a moment, he saw that surprise mirrored on his face. For a _very_ brief moment. It was smoothed away a second later, in favor of bland intrigue. “Interesting,” he murmured, and before Martin could regain himself, Lukas’ hands shoved at him, and he toppled over the railing.

He hit the water, a wave crashing over his head, and he drowned.

And drowned. And drowned. 

* * *

He didn’t know how long he was down there. There was no way to measure the nothingness or the cold or the unending floundering of his lungs as they yearned for air and took in nothing but water. He wasn’t quite conscious, but couldn’t let himself fully drift away. The dark never came for him, and so he hung in the space between. 

Until something deigned to bring him back up again. The next thing he knew, he was hacking salt water up on the familiar deck of the Tundra, shaking with aching cold and exhaustion and _hunger._ A familiar pair of boots filled his vision. 

Martin spat seawater on them, glaring up wordlessly.

“Now,” Peter Lukas said, nonplussed, head tilted as he looked down at him, “are we ready to try again?”

Martin struggled futilely against the hands that grabbed at him, his feet skidding in his own sick as they dragged him off, hunger and exhaustion making his head spin. 

They tossed him into the room he had taken up in, slamming the door behind him and, for a wonderful moment, Martin thought, maybe, they would leave him alone. Then, he saw he wasn’t alone in the room at all.

The younger man from earlier was there, slumped against the wall, a chain running from a bolted piece of metal on the wall to his wrist, his eyes clouded over. His mouth hung open, letting loose a steady stream of fog.

Martin inhaled sharply, and the fog that had filled the room from the man’s lungs eased the ache in his stomach, just for a moment. And then that awful hunger rose in him like a wave, and he lunged. 

And he consumed, mindless, raking through the man’s mind for any vestiges of lonely fog and tearing through memory when there was no more, desperate to be full.

He took, and took, and took, until he could not find anything more to take, and he sank back on his heels, the man’s face slipping out of his grip. Martin closed his eyes, and felt, for the first time in ages, full. The fog was curled tight in his lungs, in his veins, clutching tight like an embrace. He felt full.

He felt nothing. A lovely, quiet nothing.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking down at the unmoving body below him. The man’s face was slack, his eyes open, unclouded, unblinking. His chest still rose, up and down, but there was utterly no sign of life in his face. No indication that he heard or felt or saw anything at all.

Martin stared down at him, and felt nothing. That wasn’t right. He stared, searching for some emotion to fill him up at the sight, but there was nothing. Nothing but cold fog. 

He should have felt _something,_ right? Martin stared down at the wreck he’d made of what had once been a person, and didn’t feel _anything._

After a long while, he finally felt a flicker of something. Panic, or guilt, maybe. He didn’t know. He didn’t care, he just clung to it, held it there as it grew and had his breaths coming short. 

He scrambled away from the body and to the door, trying to yank it open and banging on it with open palms when it didn’t budge. “Let me out!” he shouted, pulling at the door with all his might. 

It remained closed, as if it were welded shut, and no one came to the door, no matter how loud his shouts became.

As the hours passed, with no answer, those feelings in his stomach, swirling guilt and panic and horror, only grew, rising up in him like a wave. He couldn’t look at the body in the room without that guilt hissing _what have you done, what have you done, what have you_ **_done._ **

He pressed himself into the corner opposite the body, pressing his head against his knees, trying to ignore the way the room began to stink of piss and shit from the body in the corner that still breathed, but was dead in every other way. 

He yearned for the nothingness again. Anything to take away from the pit of guilt that ate away at him, bringing wracking sobs to his throat.

 _What have you done, what have you done, what have you_ **_done--_ **

The door, after hours or maybe days, finally opened. Martin didn’t react to the shuffle of footsteps, until he felt someone crouch before him. A hand, large, calloused, touched his cheek and brushed away a tear. Martin, slowly, looked up at Peter Lukas. 

“The first feed always has the fastest comedown,” Lukas was saying calmly, an almost sympathetic look on his face as two crew members behind him began the process of unscrewing the bolted chain from the wall. “Don’t worry. The sooner you feed regularly, the sooner you won’t feel much of anything at all—”

“What have you done to me?” Martin asked, his voice hollow. 

Lukas blinked at him, donning a politely patient smile. “Me? Martin, _I_ haven’t done anything to you. Our patron chose you, not me. And, I must say,” Lukas said, looking back as the crew members dragged the body from the room, “you have taken to it rather well, haven’t you,” he said, a little bit breathless, a little bit _proud._

Martin felt sick. “I’m not doing that again,” he rasped.

“No? And what about the next time you get just a bit too hungry, hm? Would you like the Lonely to have you again?”

“No,” Martin answered immediately, terror cinching his lungs. “No.”

“Then, I’m afraid you’ll have to make a choice,” Lukas said, in that casual way of his, as if Martin wasn’t falling apart in front of him, “and live with the consequences.”

Martin shook his head, tears blurring his vision, tightening his throat. “I...I can’t—”

Lukas’ hand reached for his cheek again, and Martin flinched back, but Lukas touched him anyway, and he felt—

He felt, abruptly, a lovely flood of nothingness. He breathed out, a cloud of fog gathering from his mouth. 

Lukas looked at him intently, as if fascinated. “It’s a wonder I didn’t see it before,” he said, “that you don’t seem to let yourself take until you’re forced into it. But it does make so much sense.”

Martin blinked at him, his head pleasantly blurry from the utter nothing. “What?” 

Lukas stared for a moment longer, then leaned back, taking his hand away. Martin shuddered as the guilt came rushing back. 

“Hm,” Lukas said, head tilted, “I suppose there is one more thing we can try.”

Before Martin could even think to reply, Lukas’s hands were suddenly fisted in his collar, hauling him up from the floor and slamming him against the wall. Martin gasped out, but the sound cut off when, with no warning, Lukas kissed him. 

Martin gave a muffled shout and bit down on his lip, and Lukas reared back for a moment, but then Lukas’ hands wound their way around his throat, cutting off any other noise he could have made. 

Martin clawed at his wrists and kicked, but Lukas’ grip merely tightened and, for good measure, he slammed Martin’s head against the wall. The last of his breath left his lungs when he gasped from the bright pain that bloomed at the back of his head, and Lukas kissed him again, his tongue plowing into his mouth. Martin tasted blood and salt, and his head spun from the lack of air. 

His vision swam, his fingers went slack against Lukas’ wrists. He stopped fighting, when he felt himself start to drift away.

And then, something weightier than air filled his lungs, filled his veins, even with Lukas’ hands around his throat, and he felt—

He felt—

Nothing. 

Lovely, quiet nothing. The fog filled him, curled in all those empty corners and reminded him this was what it felt like to be whole. 

Lukas’ grip slackened, and Martin took an instinctive breath, though he found he wasn’t even desperate to do so anymore. The air felt much thinner, less vital than the fog. 

“Better,” Lukas murmured, his eyes cloudy, fog leaving his mouth on the exhale, “isn’t it?”

Martin stared at him, a hair's breadth away, and wondered where the urge to recoil had gone. Everything that had felt so pressing a moment ago was lost in a cloud, numbed over, wiped clean. 

Lukas took a step back, and Martin, instinctively, swayed forward, chasing the contact. Lukas paused, looking down at him, smile widening. He reached out again, his fingers pressing under Martin’s jaw and tilting his head up, his palm a threatening pressure against his windpipe, and that fog followed the contact, rushing into Martin’s lungs with a lovely, numbing cold. He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut.

“My, my,” Lukas said, his voice just the slightest bit strained, “you’re greedy for it now, aren’t you?”

Martin opened his eyes and glared at him, and Lukas barked a laugh. “There you are,” he said, leaning closer, pressing Martin back against the wall. “You prefer this then?” he asked softly, his breath sweet with fog, his eyes clouding over. “To that?” he gestured to the spot where the young man’s body had lain. 

Martin’s eyes drifted over the spot. He searched for the guilt, the horror at what he’d done, but couldn’t find it. Not through the fog. 

Lukas increased the pressure at his throat, just so, enough that Martin instinctively looked back at him. “Well?” Lukas asked, his eyes filled with streaming fog. Insatiably hungry.

Martin met his eyes, thinking on the memory of that awful guilt. Haunted by the distant memory of a conscience that he could no longer find. “Yes,” he breathed, and so Lukas surged forward, taking as much as he gave. Maybe more.

Likely more.

And it went like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Suicidal thoughts/ideation from Martin in the beginning of the chapter, he toys with the idea of hurling himself off a bridge. Lukas verbally, emotionally, and physically abuses Martin in this chapter. The physical abuse includes violence like threats of bodily harm such as drowning (which are enacted), choking, head trauma, and non-con kissing. He manipulates and gaslights Martin throughout the chapter. If you'd like more specific warnings, I'd be happy to reply to a comment about that. 
> 
> This is as bad as it's gonna get for this fic in terms of referencing explicit abuse, I promise. It was also going to be shorter, but the whole story about how Martin became Lonely was pretty much cemented as this specific sequence of events for a while now, and it ended up being way longer than I thought it would be but, ah well. Hope you guys...enjoyed? Cried? Are really sad for Martin now? Don't worry, Peter Lukas will not survive this story, Jon's gonna make sure of that.


	8. Chapter 8

There was more. Jon knew without wanting to there was more. There was the next time they found castaways and brought them aboard, and Martin stared at the slow spread of blood against the deck, minute by minute diluted by the rain, as Lukas’ arm wrapped around him with fingers that bruised, as Martin thought surely he was supposed to feel...something. And then there was later, when Lukas brought him to a room that must have been his with a grip around his wrist that Martin supposed should have hurt, but felt like barely anything at all through the cloud. 

Fingers digging into pale flesh—

Roiling fog—

The creak of bed springs—

The Eye wanted to hear it all, but the part of him that was still Jonathan Sims wanted anything but. 

“ ** _Stop,_** ” he managed to gasp out, his eyes screwed shut.

Martin’s voice went quiet. The statement finished.

Jon blindly cast a hand out to steady himself on the desk, his legs shaking, his hands shaking, the whole of his body shaking with anger and sorrow and disgust at himself, that he felt full, sated.

When he opened his eyes, Martin was staring at him, a crease in his brow. Jon thought he looked a little paler, but for all it was worth, Martin looked no different than he had before he’d started to speak. “Are you alright?” Martin asked him, and it was so ridiculous Jon barked out a laugh that had Martin’s expression furrowing further.

How could Martin ask if _he_ was alright? When Martin had...

When _Lukas_ had—

Jon felt, abruptly, sick. Dizzy with horror.

He didn’t know when he’d ended up on the floor by the desk, but suddenly Martin was there, a familiar presence at his side, smelling like the sea.

He hadn’t always smelled like that, the Eye delighted in informing him. Martin had liked lavender scented things, citrus-y things, before Peter Lukas had found him and molded him and made him anew. He’d liked oversized sweaters and peach tea and warm blankets and poetry—

Jon was crying. He didn’t know when it had started. Hot tears carved their way down his cheeks, and Martin’s arms were wrapped around him, trying to comfort, but Jon wasn’t the one who should be taking comfort, he wasn’t the one who—

Who had been—

“I’m sorry,” Jon managed, his throat thick with tears, muffled in the curve of Martin’s neck and shoulder.

He felt Martin shake his head, his arms tightening around him.

Neither of them said anything more for a long while. Jon’s fingers tangled in the holes of Martin’s knit sweater. He forced himself to focus only on the feeling of Martin’s arms around him,—one around his middle and his other hand absently running over his hair—the feeling of Martin’s shoulders rising ever so slightly with each breath, the jump of his heartbeat at the base of his throat. And yet, he couldn’t banish that guilt for finding comfort in it, even though he felt shaky, sick, in the wake of Martin’s statement.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked him, the words sticking in his throat. 

Martin was silent for a long beat, but his fingers didn’t stop their gentle motion through Jon’s hair. 

Finally he said, as if on a sigh, “I don’t really know how to answer that, Jon.”

Jon’s grip around him, unconsciously, tightened. As if, if he didn’t hold on hard enough, the fog would take him back—Lukas would take him back. It was a ridiculous thought. A futile one. That had already happened, after all. 

“Of course not,” Jon murmured, looking up, his nose brushing the soft skin under Martin’s jaw. “Of course, I-I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing, love,” Martin said, tiredly.

Jon swallowed another useless _I’m sorry_ that instinctively welled up in his throat. He let the silence linger, sure it wasn’t his right to fill it if Martin didn’t want to. He took in the small comfort of the rise and fall of Martin’s chest, the slow, subtle sounds of his breath in the silence. 

“I’m not upset,” Martin said finally, his voice so even and abrupt it shocked Jon out of his stupor, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon pulled back to look at him, and saw Martin’s eyes locked on the wall opposite. “Okay,” Jon said, softly, when it didn’t seem like anything else was forthcoming.

Jon could tell that that wasn’t the end of it though, could see Martin’s throat work and the way his brow was furrowed as he stared at the wall opposite. “I should feel like that,” Martin said abruptly, after a moment of tense silence, “shouldn’t I?”

Jon frowned, something in Martin’s tone innately worrying, a kind bland disappointment. He tried and failed to catch his eye. “It’s alright if you don’t—“

“But it’s not—it’s not _right_ , is it?” Martin muttered, still not quite looking at him. 

Jon blinked at him, confused, searching for something to say, but floundering, falling flat. 

“Someone does you wrong, you’re supposed to feel angry. Someone hurts you, and you’re supposed to feel upset. That’s how it _works._ ” Martin looked down at his hands in his lap, the skin pale against the brown of his trousers, his nail beds blue. 

Jon’s breath caught in his throat, as he began to understand. “Martin...” he murmured softly, slowly moving to take Martin’s left hand in his own. His skin was freezing, but Jon didn’t balk at the temperature difference. Just entwined his fingers with Martin’s, letting his thumb brush over his knuckles.

Martin sucked in an audible breath, staring down at their hands. Slowly, Martin mirrored the movement of Jon’s thumb with his own. They simply sat there for a few moments, focused on the single point of contact. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin suddenly said, hushed, “if I’ve not...if I’ve ever said the wrong thing, or—or been too harsh, or been too cold. It’s...hard for me to–to know what I’m expected to...say, or feel, especially right after I’ve...fed.”

Jon’s heart weighed heavy in his chest. “Martin,” he murmured, “You don’t have to apologize. For any of that.”

Martin swallowed, the pale line of his throat bobbing up and down, and met his eyes. That little furrow in his brow remained, as he, for a moment, searched Jon’s expression. “I upset you, though,” Martin said, “with what I told you.”

Jon realized, then, how he must have looked—dried tear tracks on his cheeks, eyes red rimmed, face pale. “I’m not upset at you,” Jon was quick to confirm, his hand squeezing Martin’s.

“At Peter, then?” Martin asked, a bit distantly, his eyes dropping away. 

Jon took a breath, trying and failing to read into his expression. “Yes,” he confirmed tentatively. He remembered the combination of fear, disgust, and hate that Martin had felt toward Lukas when he was closer to human, and wondered where he stood now. Jon had no intentions of lying about his own feelings, however. “I hate him for what he’s done,” he admitted bluntly, watching as Martin blinked and looked back at him. “For what he did to you.”

Martin just stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes slightly wide, the furrow in his brow disappearing. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and he said, slightly stilted, as if he wasn’t used to it, “thank you.”

Jon nodded, looked down at their hands, then looked back up at him again. The question he wanted to ask, for a moment, remained lodged in his throat. “Martin,” he began softly, “do you...do you _want_ to continue feeding from Lukas?”

Martin was silent for a long time, his eyes somewhere between Jon and the floor, drifting over his collar, his hands, and yet not quite settling anywhere. Jon tried not to grip his hand too tight, tried not to influence his answer in any way. Because he would hate it, if Martin said yes, but he would, objectively, understand. There was something to be said of routine, of the familiar. And he could understand, as much as he hated it, why Martin chose it in the first place—even though Lukas never actually gave him a real choice. Jon could understand the appeal of feeding and never hurting anyone but yourself. If he could do the same, would he?

Maybe.

“No,” Martin said, almost hushed, “no, I don’t...I don’t think I do.” 

Jon tried, pathetically, not to make his relief too obvious. He slowed the release of tension in his shoulders, forced himself to breathe more evenly. 

“But,” Martin said, “I don’t know if it’s that simple.” Seeing the protest on the tip of Jon’s tongue, in the furrowing of his brow, Martin raised his brows, tilting his head. Jon swallowed down the protest, and Martin continued, “I’ve been with him for so long, Jon. So much of the Lonely in me is because of him. I’ve...I’ve never been cut off from him, not really. I don’t...I don’t know if I can,” he sighed, looking down at their hands. “I know you don’t...I know it makes me less—”

“It doesn’t,” Jon blurted, horrified at the implication of whatever Martin was about to say. “It doesn’t. Martin. Martin, look at me,” he murmured, placing his hand on Martin’s freezing cheek. When Martin finally looked back up at him, he took a moment to just look, take in every line and curve of Martin’s face, and let the utter, complete adoration he felt sweep him away completely. 

Martin stared back at him, wide-eyed, some creeping confusion on his face, like he’d never been looked at like that before. “Jon...”

“I love you,” Jon said softly, and strangely, they were the easiest words he’d ever spoken. They fluttered out of his mouth like birds, like a lovely sigh that had waited ages to escape the cage of his ribs. 

Martin’s eyelids fluttered in a flurry of blinks, his mouth parting, brow furrowing. “You...?”

“I love you,” he said again, with more weight to the words, with more surety than he had ever said anything. “And I don’t...I don’t need you to say it back,” Jon assured him, “but I just...I want you to know that I do.”

Martin stared at him, his mouth still slightly parted. After a moment, his eyes dropped, and again didn’t settle on anything in particular, that furrow reappearing in his brow. He looked, for a moment, decidedly lost, as if he’d been working off a script that had been abruptly rewritten. “I don’t think anyone’s ever loved me before,” he finally said, so softy Jon almost didn’t hear it. 

The breath left Jon’s lungs abruptly, a feeling too close to sorrow filling up the sudden cavern of his chest. How could the world have so utterly failed someone like Martin, someone soft and kind and lovely, even when encouraged to be otherwise? Someone who was so made to be loved. 

He let his trembling right hand join his left in cradling Martin’s face, leaning in closer. Martin watched the movement with wide, slightly wondrous eyes, but there was still that furrow in his brow, as if he was still a little lost, still didn’t quite believe it as Jon meant it. 

So Jon leaned up and pressed his lips to the space between his brows, soothing the tension there. “I love you,” he murmured, drawing back only to press another kiss to Martin’s cheekbone. “I love you.” He slowly drew back, to move to his other cheek. “I love you,” he breathed there, as if he could trace the words into his skin, prove to him that he was so loved in every sense of the word, that he should have always been. 

He drew back, his nose a hair’s breadth away from Martin’s. He felt Martin’s trembling breath on his lips. He glanced up and saw Martin’s eyes, big and blue and so softly wondrous it took his breath away for a moment. He sighed, “I love—”

But was cut off by Martin closing the distance between them and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, soft and unhurried. Jon fought a smile, huffing a breath from his nose. “I wasn’t finished,” he mock complained. 

“You talk too much,” Martin told him, a smile so lovely playing on his mouth that Jon couldn’t find it in him to even pretend to be offended.

“Come home with me?” he asked, the question falling from his lips without permission. He realized, a moment after, exactly what he’d said. _Home._ He’d never thought of his apartment as such. But the thought of Martin there, taking up that extra chair at the table, or poking his head out from the kitchen, or tucked away on the other side of the bed—the thought of that so acutely took Jon’s breath away it was staggering. His apartment was nothing but a sparse structure with four walls, but with Martin there...he supposed it would feel right, then. To call it a home.

The smile on Martin’s face had frozen at the question, then widened, for all the world looking softer. “Only if you have tea,” he said, his eyes bright.

If Jon swiped some of the tea bags from the breakroom before they left, that was no one’s business but his own. 

Later, after tea and gentle, fluttering touches, Jon laid in bed, studying Martin’s face as he began to drift off, caught on the way the furrow between his brows was smoothed out completely, the way his freckles looked faint, after Lukas, but still slightly visible, still a lovely spray across his nose, if you looked hard enough. He watched Martin’s eyelashes flutter as sleep pulled him further under, watched his curls bounce with every little shift of his head, and listened to his soft breaths in the quiet, and thought, yes. 

This is what home is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love them. A little bit of a shorter chapter than usual, but I really wanted this chapter to just be soft


	9. Chapter 9

Jon dreamed of the Tundra. He dreamed of the roil of motion, as the ship was tossed over the waves, the stormy fog clinging to his skin, dampening his clothing. The rain and the wind blew at him, tearing, cutting in its intensity. It was a kind of cold that would have taken his breath away, if he’d needed to breathe in this place. 

As it was, he wasn’t there to breathe. He was there to watch. 

And no matter that he wished he could claw his way out of his ill-fitting skin to intervene. That wasn’t what he was there for. So he watched. 

He watched as the crew members of the Tundra brought the two shipwreck survivors aboard, only to tear into them, ruining them far more thoroughly than the raging saltwater ever could have. 

He watched as Lukas dragged a struggling, panicking Martin—so flooded with fear he could taste it in the air—and pushed him over the side. 

He watched as Martin fed for the very first time, soothing the ache of his hunger with a vengeance. 

He watched as Lukas’ brutish fingers dragged against Martin’s skin, leeching the color, bringing fog to his eyes and nose and mouth, making his expression go slack with the sheer intensity of un-feeling. He watched as Lukas’ tongue plowed into Martin’s unresisting mouth. He watched the bruises already begin to form with the violence of Lukas’ grip as he pressed Martin against the wall, and watched Martin’s eyes, clouded over, utterly uncaring—

Until those eyes flickered over Lukas’ shoulder and met his.

Jon gasped awake, shivering sweat itching against his skin, his heart hammering in his chest. He stared at the familiar beams of his ceiling, and as his heartbeat slowed with the realization that this was real, that he was in his flat, that there was a distinct dip in the bed beside him, his heart began to sink in his chest, plummeting to the sinkhole of his stomach. No, he thought, no, no, no—

He chanced a slow, hesitant glance to his right, and saw Martin looking back at him. It didn’t seem like Martin had been awake long, with his eyes still narrowed with sleep that clung to his lashes, but...

He was awake, and Jon...Jon knew why.

“You were in my dream,” Martin murmured, his voice a little deeper, a little rougher with sleep still lingering at the edges. He blinked at Jon, slow and almost sluggishly, his eyes lazily trailing over Jon’s face as if to make it fit the image he’d seen on the Tundra. It was utterly unaccusing, and yet the words made panic spike, hot and sharp, in Jon’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the guilt of it like an ache in his chest, a rush of self-loathing making him feel cold, even with the body heat that had collected under the sheets. He should have known, he should have _known_ this would happen. Of course the Eye would want to feast again and again, wouldn’t just let Martin speak his truth and let go. Jon shouldn’t have compelled him, even if Martin had asked, even if it had made it easier for Martin to remember the hazier parts. He shouldn’t have, he’d let the desire to know and the pull of Martin’s voice asking him to... he’d let that _justify_ it, but he shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have because of _course_ this was going to happen—

“Jon,” Martin’s voice, more firm now, cut through the frantic storm of his thoughts. Martin’s fingers brushed over his cheek and trailed into his hair. “Breathe.”

Shakily, Jon complied, slowly letting air into his aching lungs, realizing that they’d been floundering, quite useless, for a few seconds. He blinked away the heat that had prickled behind his eyes, closing them, letting his thoughts linger only on the brush of Martin’s thumb against his jaw, sending sparks over his skin. When he had a better hold of himself again, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I—I had no right to be there, I know that. I...I can’t really control it, but th-that’s no excuse.”

“It’s alright,” Martin said, softly. When Jon opened his eyes, Martin was looking back at him levelly. His curls were spread against the fabric of the pillow like a halo. When he shifted, slightly, Jon could see the imprints of the fabric against his cheek. It took his breath away, again, that Martin was there. With him. Less than a foot away. 

“It’s not,” Jon breathed, his throat thick. “It’s not, it’s wrong.”

Martin shrugged, a lazy, half-movement of his shoulder. "I don't mind, Jon."

"That—that doesn't make it okay," Jon said. He went cold with the abrupt realization. Was Martin even _capable_ of being upset with him, so soon after feeding? Jon remembered what he'd said, the night before. That it was hard for him to know what he expected to feel. Jon felt sick. He met Martin's eyes, which were utterly calm, and felt breathless with the sudden need to make him understand. It was the only thing that made sense, the only explanation for why Martin wasn't furious with him. "You—you should be angry with me, you know that, right?"

Martin blinked at him, brow furrowing just slightly. "But I'm not."

"You _should_ be, Martin, I-I just _forced_ you to relive that memory that—that you shared with me in _confidence—"_

 _"Jon,"_ Martin interrupted, his voice harder, colder. _There,_ Jon thought, a little numbly, as the roaring sound grew in his ears. There was the anger. Of course Martin should be angry, it was unforgivable really—

"I really don't appreciate you dictating what I should and shouldn't be feeling," Martin continued. "I know it's not _...normal,_ but I'm not going to pretend I feel something when I don't, Jon. Don't—" He sighed, glancing away, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "I don't want to be made to feel like I should apologize for not reacting right."

Jon stared at him, eyes wide. It hadn't been what he'd been expecting, and a new kind of shame flooded him at the reproach. "I didn't...you—no, y-you're right, I—I wouldn’t ask you to—I didn’t mean—I-I'm sorry." He swallowed, roughly, around the bubbling guilt that rose up to his throat, blinking away tears. "I'm really sorry," he said wretchedly, reaching up to put his hand over Martin's, meeting his eyes. "I didn't...I didn't mean to make you feel that way, a-and I didn't...I didn't mean to make you dream that. Didn't mean to be there. I'm sorry."

Martin studied his expression for a moment, the look in his eyes softening, even as a furrow appearing between his brows. “So you want to stop?” he asked. "The dream-walking?"

Jon stared at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I...? Yes, of-of course—I...I hate it,” he admitted in a whisper. "The watching. Not being able to _do_ anything. It's awful."

Martin looked at him a moment more, then, with a smooth, slow movement, closed the distance between them, tilted his head, and pressed a kiss to Jon’s lips. Jon’s breath left him in a rush, as he opened up to the familiar movements. Martin's mouth opened against his, and a sudden breath of cold rushed through him, curling in his throat, filling his lungs, clouding his thoughts, for a moment. 

Jon pulled back, blinking, brow furrowing as the feeling dissipated. “What did you...?”

“I don’t think you’ll dream of it anymore,” Martin answered. 

Jon gaped at him for a moment, utterly taken aback. “Wh—what? What do you mean?”

“It’s more hazy,” Martin said, his hand continuing its gentle motion through Jon’s hair, “isn’t it? When you think on it?”

Jon frowned, searching for the memory and found that, while it was still there, the details of it were farther away. He couldn’t remember the motion of the waves. Or the faces of the two shipwreck survivors. It felt as though it were condensed to broad strokes, generalisms. “Oh,” Jon breathed. He could feel that part of him that was of the Eye aching a little with the loss, mourning a story that could no longer be recreated. “Oh.”

“Do you think it’ll work?” Martin asked, meeting his eyes.

“I...I think it might?” Jon said, feeling a little lightheaded at the very idea. There was little vividness in it now, maybe...maybe that would be enough. 

He thought on the Lonely and how good it was at severing connections, and, for a moment, wondered what else that kind of power could be used for. 

“Well,” Martin said softly, closing the distance between them, tucking himself close. He buried his face into the curve of Jon’s neck, breathing out a sleepy, contented sigh. He must have felt the way Jon’s breath caught and the way his throat worked, again suddenly overwhelmed that this was real. Martin was here. Jon buried his nose in Martin’s hair, his eyes fluttering shut. “There’s only one way to find out,” Martin continued, pressing a kiss to Jon’s fluttering pulse point. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon breathed again, against his hair. 

“‘S okay,” Martin murmured tiredly. His nose brushed against Jon’s neck when he shifted, slightly, sending shivers down his spine.

“But—“

“Jon,” Martin grumbled, “I forgive you.” He sighed again and his breath ghosted over Jon’s skin. “Go back to sleep, love,” he said, his voice softer.

Jon blinked away the prickling heat that sprang behind his eyes, holding him closer. _I love you,_ he likely would have said, if he could say anything around the emotion clinging thick in his throat. 

Martin huffed a breath, turning his head slightly against the pillow—Jon’s pillow really, as close as they were. His curls brushed under Jon’s jaw, his eyelashes fluttering against the skin of his throat. Jon’s hand cradled the back of his head, carding through the curls there, and Martin gave another, contented, lovely sigh. 

Jon let the even sound of Martin’s breathing lull him away again. 

He dreamt of a lovely, hazy nothing.

* * *

This time, when Jon woke, it was to steady, streaming sunlight from the corner of his window uncovered by his curtains. He blinked, squinting, and his eyes focused on Martin, still asleep. The light from the window made the tips of his hair glow gold. 

Jon studied his face in the quiet, his lungs and his heart suddenly feeling too big for his chest, swelling against the backs of his ribs. He studied the curve of Martin’s nose, how it was a little wider and a little flatter than his own. His eyes traced the smatter of freckles across his cheeks and nose, less faint than they’d been the day before. Jon looked over the soft curve of his cheeks, the wild set of his curls, the flash of dark eyelashes against the paleness of his face. He let his hand trace over the weight of Martin’s arm, slung around Jon’s middle. Jon watched him, in the quiet peacefulness of the early morning, and thought, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Jon watched him, practically bleeding with the sentiment, until his blaring alarm broke the silence a few minutes later. Martin groaned, shoving his face further into the pillow, and Jon twisted to reach the bedside table, quickly turning it off. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, only a hint of amusement in his tone.

Martin grumbled something into the pillow, his arm tightening around Jon’s middle. 

Not a morning person then. Jon savored the new knowledge, turning it around in his head and letting it settle among the other bits and pieces of knowledge he’d collected, the lines and curves and shades that made up Martin Blackwood. 

Jon shifted closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I have to go in to the institute, Martin.”

Again, Martin made a grumbling sound nearly muffled entirely into the pillow. Jon’s grin widened. “What was that?” he asked.

Martin sighed, turning his head and craning it to look over the arc of the pillow at him, his glare losing its potency somewhat in the way he blinked, slow and sleepy. His hair was a mess, and the right side of his face streaked with pillow creases. He looked so lovely. “What time is it?”

It took Jon a moment to blink out of his stupor and answer. “Seven—”

“ _Ugh_.”

Jon huffed a laugh. “Lord, Martin. It’s not even _that_ early.”

Martin dropped his head back down, muttering something that sounded like “to _you,_ ” but Jon wasn’t entirely sure since he mumbled it directly into the sheets.

Jon’s smile softened, as he looked at him. “Did you...” He swallowed, some of that old fear creeping back. “Did you sleep well?”

Wordlessly, immediately, Martin nodded, shifting across the space between them and pressing closer, his arms winding around him. "Yeah," Martin murmured, so very soft, his breath ghosting over the skin exposed above the collar of Jon's shirt. Jon breathed out his sheer relief, closing his eyes for a moment. He hoped to never dream of the Tundra again. "You're so warm," Martin murmured, pressing closer.

“Martin,” Jon tried to chide, secretly entranced by the feeling of Martin’s cheekbone against his collarbone, “I have to go.”

“Must you?” Martin mumbled, the warmth of his cheek bleeding through Jon’s shirt. _Martin_ wasn’t usually so warm, not at all, but tucked under the covers all night he practically leeched warmth, and Jon wanted nothing more than to stay there, in his arms, forever.

Jon sighed, his fingers carding through Martin’s hair, his thumb tracing circles into his scalp. For a moment, he marveled in the way the simple motion had Martin going pliant and boneless against him, letting out a pleased hum. “I’m supposed to meet Daisy on the way to the Institute,” he admitted, a bit rueful. And Basira had been wanting to meet with him for days about the Dark, but he’d been...distracted, as of late. She’d be sure to be irritated if he skirted their meeting another day.

Martin made a sleepy, displeased sound at this information. Jon ducked down and pressed a conciliatory kiss to his hair. “You know,” Jon murmured, “you could...join us. She’s said she wants to meet you.”

It was easy to notice, with how close Martin was pressed against him, when he went stiff. 

“You don’t...have to,” Jon rushed to assure.

“No,” Martin said, drawing back a little to look up at him, “no, that’s...I’m not...I’m not saying never, it’s just...” Jon saw the line of his throat work up and down as he swallowed, casting his eyes away. “I’m not very good at...um... _being_ ,” he said, scrunching his face up a bit, “when there’s more than just one other person. I don't...I can't even remember the last time I've been in a room with more than one person. It—It’s hard to resist the temptation to just...fade. Especially, um. Especially right after I’ve, um...”

“It’s alright,” Jon told him, watching the breath of relief that crossed over Martin's face. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Martin was sure to insist, brow furrowed a little like he was worried Jon still might interpret it that way. 

“I know,” Jon assured, softly, letting his hand cradle the side of Martin’s face. “You’ll let me know if you ever do feel up to it?”

Martin nodded, a small, lovely smile on his face, his eyes bright. Lord. Jon wanted to make him look like that all the time. He thought he could have counted on two hands the amount of times he’d seen Martin genuinely smile, like the Lonely made a habit of clinging to the sides of his mouth and setting the curve flat. That wouldn’t do at all. Jon vowed, then, to take note of every smile and do his best to keep them going.

“Sure,” Martin murmured, softly.

“Good,” Jon murmured, pressing another kiss to his hairline. He glanced behind, quickly checking the time, and turned back, his expression twisting. “I have to go.”

Martin huffed a sigh. “Sad,” he said, shortly.

“Wow. You really are a poet, aren’t you—ow!” Jon rubbed the shoulder Martin had lightly punched even though it didn’t really hurt, though felt very pleased when Martin abandoned his attempt at a glare and burrowed back into him. 

“You know, you could always—” Jon began thoughtlessly, before stopping. At Martin’s questioning look, he tentatively continued, “I mean, you could always come back here. After...after work. If you like. I mean...you’re always welcome here.” The words came out soft, a little breathy. It felt like far too much to ask, something close to domestic that tugged at Jon’s chest. 

Martin blinked at him, eyes a little wide, and Jon said, rushed, “not to—I don’t mean to-to pressure you, or—”

“I’d like that,” Martin said, the look in his eyes suddenly very soft. 

“Oh,” Jon breathed. “Okay. Good.” And then, because apparently he liked to sabotage himself, he couldn’t help but ask, “so you don’t—you don’t need to go back to...um. Where...where is it you actually live?”

“I have a flat up in Knightsbridge,” Martin replied.

“Oh,” Jon said. Then, as he became acutely aware of his own dingy, small, cheap flat, “shit, really?”

Whatever expression he was wearing must have been amusing, because Martin barked a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s, uh. It’s a bit much. I don’t really even like it, but, um.” His expression leveled out, going a bit flat, and he said, with a bit less color, “I’m not really the one paying for it though.”

Jon’s smile disappeared. “Oh.” He swallowed around the sudden dryness of his throat. He didn’t like the expression Martin had taken on, distant and a little bit melancholic. So he blurted, “so don’t go back there.” Martin’s head jerked up to look at him, his eyes darting between Jon’s, and Jon added, a bit breathlessly “you don’t...You can just come here. I have a spare key. It’s not—it’s not because, um—it’s because I tended to lose the original a lot,” he said, abruptly feeling the need to explain why. Just in case Martin thought he’d done something crazy, like gotten a spare key before Martin had even seen his flat (though, if he was honest, it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it). “But, um, I...well, I have them both now, I-I found the original out from under the sofa and—”

He felt Martin go a little rigid again, and Jon quickly looked at his expression only to see that Martin looked like he was desperately trying to hold in laughter, lips pressed together, eyes bright. “What?” Jon exclaimed, a bit self-consciously.

“Jon Sims,” Martin murmured, leaning closer, so that his nose nearly brushed Jon’s. The smile on his face had his cheeks lifting up, freckles shifting. 

“What?” Jon breathed, softer.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” Martin asked, his voice lilting, almost sing-song if it hadn't been so soft. 

Jon took a little breath, letting his eyes trace over Martin’s lovely smile for a moment, before saying, with perhaps more confidence than he felt, “was that not obvious, or—?”

Martin kissed him then, soft and lovely and perfect, stealing away the rest of the reply.   
  
That was alright. Through the pleasant haze, Jon really couldn’t recall what he would have said anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be a double feature kind of chapter update, in that I will likely post the next chapter in very quick succession ;) wanted to give you guys some more of Jon and Martin being soft first though


	10. Chapter 10

“You’re grinning like a madman, Sims,” Daisy noted, hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt as she glanced at him sideways.

“Am I?” Jon asked lightly, stepping over a puddle. 

“It’s a bit creepy,” she said, “didn’t know it could go that wide.”

“That’s because you’ve never said anything funny,” Jon shot back.

She huffed. “Untrue. But we can discuss that later. For _now,_ I want to know why you’re looking like that, Sims.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said simply, casting his eyes aimlessly out at the shops on the other side of the street. 

“Wouldn’t happen to be because of a certain someone, would it?”

“Oh, definitely not,” Jon answered lightly, distractedly.

“Someone with ghost-like qualities?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea who you’re talking about.”

“Someone with ‘freckles that look like the night sky’?”

Jon took a breath to respond, then nearly choked on nothing realizing what she’d said. He stopped short and glared at her. “I never—”

“Someone with ‘soft, lovely, almost artfully mussed curls’—”

“I—I said that in confidence,” Jon hissed at her, pointing a finger, “under the influence of several pints, you’re not allowed to use that against me.”

She merely looked at him smugly, brow raised. “So I’m right.”

“That’s—”

“He’s the reason you look so sickeningly happy?”

Christ, was he really so easy to read? He turned to her, about to ask as much, but his eyes caught on a sign behind her, small, propped up in a window. He stared at it, the rest of the world fading away.

Narcotics anonymous, it read. 2pm.

Oh, he thought. Oh. _Oh._ Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

“Sims?” He distantly heard Daisy ask, trying to catch his eye, and then following his line of sight. “Jesus, you’re not smoking _again—_?”

“What? No. No, I’m...not.” He stared at the sign. 

_How do you suggest I get statements of horrible fear and trauma to be given to me willingly,_ he’d asked Martin, helplessly, what felt like so long ago. 

“I want to go,” he breathed. “Later.” He glanced at Daisy, who looked a bit wary. “Would you—do you think you could come with me?”

He knew from the expression on her face what she was going to say. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” she told him, mildly apologetic. “Just...the people who...they might not all be—”

Oh. Of course. “No,” Jon rushed to assure her, “no, I—I understand. It’s better you stay away from temptation, I understand.”

“I thought we’d agreed the same goes for you, Jon?” she asked, looking at him levelly. 

“But—if I could just...listen, w-without compelling, without recording...?” he trailed off, a little disheartened by Daisy’s expression. “You don’t think so?”

Daisy’s mouth twisted and she looked back at the sign. “I don’t know, Jon. What if you lose control and just decide to compel anyway?”

Jon swallowed the immediate retort that he wouldn’t, because...well. He might. The urge to ask was always so strong. 

He sighed, and some of his disappointment must have been clear on his face, because Daisy’s expression softened just a little. “Come on,” she said, bumping his shoulder, “your gloomy office awaits.”

“It’s not _gloomy,_ ” Jon grumbled back. 

They argued about ugly yellow lighting versus the reality of light damage until they got to the Institute, but there, when Daisy went off to find Basira, Jon found he couldn’t put the idea out of his mind. He knew it might not work. Knew there might not be any members of the group that had had any encounters with the entities at all. 

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. If he went and just...listened. Didn’t compel, didn’t record. Was it...at all possible? To feed without hurting anyone, without having to drag them back through their trauma in their nightmares? 

He couldn’t focus on his work at all. The pages of follow-up blurred, even the statements themselves only kept the bare minimum of his attention. They never really managed to sate his hunger anyway. Jon watched the clock tick on the wall of his office, as the time sluggishly approached 2pm. 

Would it be foolish to go? He didn’t even know if there would be a story waiting for him. It could just be a waste of time. 

His pen tapped an anxious rhythm against the table. The minute hand ticked on and on. 

If he went, he had to bring someone with him. He couldn’t have a repeat of the coffee shop. But Daisy couldn’t, and Basira _wouldn’t,_ and Martin wasn’t in yet and hadn’t said when he might be...

Abruptly, Jon was aware of another presence within the archive, one just entering. He was out of his office before he could even think to consider why this might be a bad idea. 

“Melanie!” he called, stopping her in her tracks. 

She whirled at the sound of his voice, arms crossed defensively, brows furrowing in fast-approaching displeasure. “Fuck do you want, Sims?” she growled.

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated. “I...ah...”

Melanie’s eyes narrowed further, and for a brief moment Jon wondered if they really _had_ gotten all the Slaughter out of her. But, no, he had _checked_ at the time. This, he knew, was normal, warranted anger. 

“You _know_ I don’t want any part of whatever shit you and Basira have going on,” Melanie told him tightly, “so just leave me out of it, alright?”

“No, that’s not—that’s not what I—”

“Then _what_ , Sims—?”

“Would you like to go to a narcotics anonymous meeting with me?” Jon blurted out.

Melanie stared at him wordlessly. Then said, flatly, “what the fuck?”

* * *

“Can’t wait for you to fuck this up,” Melanie murmured to him, just quiet enough that the few members around the circle who had come early couldn’t hear. “So I can give you a taste of your own medicine—”

“I _have_ apologized profusely about that, Melanie, I don’t know what more you want me to do,” Jon hissed back at her.

The metal chairs around them creaked as more people began to find their seats, and the meeting’s leader greeted them. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t really know if we can be square until I perform impromptu surgery on _you—_ ”

“Would you keep your voice down?” Jon told her, pressing his hand against his eyes. He could feel a stress headache coming on. “This was a bad idea.”

“On the contrary, I think this was a _great_ idea.”

Jon scoffed, but didn’t bother to answer. 

“See any courses you’d like to sample?” Melanie asked him lightly. When he glared at her, she was grinning smugly, leaning back in her chair and side-eyeing him. 

“You know, I forgot it wasn’t just the Slaughter that made you insufferable,” he told her.

“You’re one to talk,” she snorted. Her insufferable grin widened. “The Eye’s _special little boy—“_

“I hate you.”

“Right back at you, Sims.”

Jon slumped further in his chair, watching as the clock on the wall opposite ticked closer to 2pm. His eyes skirted over the others in the room, glancing at the small group just entering. He knew there was misery here, that some of them were steeped in it like they walked through a storm cloud, but it was all normal. Regular human misery. Not what he needed. 

The meeting leader’s voice broke through the murmuring of those in the circle, informing them that they were about to start, and Jon’s heart sank. He still maintained his attention, watching and waiting as some spoke up, telling their stories. Hoping he was wrong, that maybe one of them could have something that could sate him. But he remained hungry and, as time went on, frustrated and a little ashamed. 

What had he been thinking, coming here? Here he was, listening to stories he didn’t have a right to hear, really, and he couldn’t even justify it. 

He could tell Melanie was getting antsy as well, from the way she kept shifting in her seat, the metal creaking slightly. Jon was just about to whisper that they should probably go when the doors to the building swung open, and a woman—young, about nineteen, bundled in a black hoodie too big for her—walked with quick, jerky steps and dropped into an empty chair.  
  
“Sorry,” the woman whispered, when the meeting leader greeted her pointedly, a chiding note to his voice. “Traffic.”

Jon stared at her, his vision tunneling. He watched her leg bounce up and down in jerky, quick motions. He watched her bite her nails, the fingers of her other hand digging into her leg. He watched as she furtively glanced at the entrance every few seconds, as if she thought someone might appear there at any moment. 

Hunger lanced sharply in his stomach. His mouth watered. For a moment, he stopped breathing entirely, entranced by the sounds of the woman’s foot jerking up and down against the ground, the sound of her heart beating like a rabbit, already so afraid. 

Afraid of what? He had to know, he had to _know—_

A sharp pain bloomed in his arm, and Melanie’s grip around his wrist yanked him back down to his seat. He hadn’t realized he’d been moving to get up. 

“Jon,” she hissed, her nails digging into his skin, “don’t.”

Jon clenched his jaw tight as he stared back at her, breathing hard through the overwhelming desire to turn around and look at the woman. With just a word, he could end the clawing hunger that gnawed at him, pressing behind his ribs. 

“Is everything alright?” the meeting’s leader asked. When no one answered, Jon realized the question was directed at them. 

“Do we need to leave, Jon?” Melanie asked under her breath, eyes wide under furrowed brows, a pointed look and an even more weighted question. 

Jon closed his eyes and took a shaking breath. He swallowed the aching hunger down. “Fine,” he answered the man, managing a smile. “My apologies, I...” he hesitated, then, deciding it would be suitably ambiguous, said, “I didn’t realize how difficult this would be.”

“First time can be hard,” the man agreed. “Would you like to talk about it?”

A scoff bubbled up in Jon’s throat, but he swallowed it down. “No, thank you. Not today.”

After a few minutes, everyone’s attention had turned back to the speaker. Everyone but Melanie, who watched him out of the corner of her eye. 

Jon stared straight ahead, trying not to notice the woman in the corner as she fidgeted, as she shot those furtive glances at the doors. It was agony, to know there was a statement so close at hand, and yet so unreachable. What if the woman didn’t speak on it? What if the meeting ended and they all disbanded and Jon couldn’t stop himself from going to her, just asking her and taking it from her whether she wanted to tell it or not?

He dug his nails into his palms, pressing his hands against his knees, and focused on breathing. In, out. In, out. He wasn’t listening to any of them. Any of the others. He could practically hear the woman’s heartbeat over his own. 

The meeting would end soon. The meeting would end, and she wouldn’t speak, and he would lose control and do exactly what he was trying to avoid. Why had he thought this would be a good idea? Why had he clung to such a foolish hope—of course this wouldn’t work, of course there were no other options for him, why would the Eye ever let him feed any other way when there was so much fear to be had in the way that he did it, why—

“Anyone else? We have a few minutes,” the leader said, looking around the circle. His eyes lighted on the woman in the corner, and Jon’s breath caught. “Eve?”

Jon twitched at the knowledge of her name, gritting his teeth against the rush of hunger. Distantly, he felt Melanie grab at his wrist again. He tried to ground himself in the feeling.

“Right,” the woman—Eve—said, distantly, “right. I—uh...I don’t really know where to, uh—” Then, as her eyes darted nervously, everywhere and nowhere at once, her eyes caught on Jon’s. And they hung there for just a moment. And Jon was sure, then, of every inch of her fear, could feel how deeply it ran. She blinked, and then she said, steadier, “ _I’ve started seeing these shadows out of the corner of my eye. Shadows like...like people, cast on the sidewalk. But when I look, there’s no one there..._ ”

Jon listened, enraptured, the tension slowly leaving him as she spoke about her encounters with what sounded like the Dark, how she’d chased high after high because that was the only thing that seemed to make them fuzzy enough to stand, and then how not even that seemed to work anymore. 

He listened, and felt filled. 

And the meeting ended. 

“You didn’t ask her anything,” Melanie said, as they left, studying his face.

“No,” he agreed, feeling a bit dreamlike as they walked into the brightness of the day outside. 

“So did it...work?” she asked, raising a brow.

“I...” He blinked, considering. He’d held off the desire to compel. The statement hadn’t been recorded. Both had been required for feeding before, so maybe...maybe he _had._ “I think...I think I did,” he said, breathlessly. Then, with a splitting grin, he said, “I fed and I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Speak for yourself,” Melanie muttered, “that was the most boring afternoon I’ve had in ages—”

“Thank you,” Jon told her, firmly, “for...for not letting me.”

Melanie blinked at him, for a moment looking almost shocked, but her expression settling quickly. “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, though she looked far more placated, “You owe me one, Sims.”

They made their way back to the Institute in relative silence, but on the whole, it was probably the most companionable they’d ever been.

* * *

Jon opened the door to his flat later that day, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw Martin sitting at the puny dining table he had, absently tapping his fingers on a mug of tea. 

Martin looked up at the sound of his entry, a nervous little smile flitting over his face. “Hi. I—um, I hope you don’t mind I already used the key, a-and I um, I used your kettle—”

Jon quickly crossed the distance and leaned down to kiss him, his hands cradling his face. Martin’s contented little sigh ghosted over his skin as he tilted his head up into it. 

“Don’t be,” Jon breathed, when they pulled away. “I was hoping I’d find you here—you never came to the Institute,” he said, a note of that lingering worry he’d felt bleeding through. It was quickly replaced by the urge to share what he’d managed to do that day. “And I—there’s something I want to tell you,” he added, that smile coming back to his face at the thought.

Martin looked at him, brows raised, confused amusement curling his mouth. “What?”

“I went to an NA meeting today.”

Martin’s expression went a little funny, and he said, as if he wasn’t sure how he was meant to respond, “Oh...kay?”

“I got a statement,” Jon clarified. 

“Oh!” Martin said, eyes widening. “And you...?”

“I didn’t use compulsion,” Jon told him, “and it wasn’t recorded.”

Martin’s grin widened as Jon’s did, his eyes bright. “Jon, that’s wonderful.” He took Jon’s hands. “You did it.”

“I did it,” Jon echoed back, a little dazedly. Even now, even saying it, it didn’t seem real. “You were right. I wanted to tell you the moment we got back, but...you weren’t there. I—I didn’t notice you coming in at all today, actually,” Jon admitted, studying Martin’s expression, which looked, abruptly, a little distant. “Is everything alright?”

Martin’s smile looked a little tight at the edges. “Fine.”

Jon frowned. “Martin.”

Martin sighed, glancing away. “I did _mean_ to go in today, but...Peter reached out. Said he wanted to discuss some of the Extinction statements.”

It was remarkable, how the mere mention of Peter Lukas’ name could leave Jon feeling cold, stiff with a roil of hatred and fear all at once. He scanned Martin’s face, his skin, wondering if he’d missed any bruises—how could he have been so unobservant?—but he didn’t see anything. Still, his grip shifted in Martin’s hands, drawing his attention, and he asked, “are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” Martin told him earnestly, meeting his eyes. “It was...it went fine, we...we just discussed the statements.”

Jon studied Martin’s face. Ran his eyes over the slight furrow in his brow, the pinched set of his mouth. “Then why do you look like that?” Jon asked.

“Like what?”

“ _Worried._ ”

Martin huffed a sigh, glancing away. “It could be nothing,” he said, softly. 

“Martin,” Jon said sharply. “What happened?”

When Martin met his eyes again, they were a little too wide. He took a visible breath, and murmured, “he just...he mentioned something. An offhand comment at most, but it...I couldn’t help but feel like it was...” Martin sighed, cutting off for a moment. “Peter said,” Martin murmured slowly, pointedly, “that we might have to feed sooner than normal. Because the last time...wasn’t as _filling._ And then he just... _looked_ at me, for a moment. Like—like he was waiting to see if I’d say anything, or—or react at all.”

Jon stared at him, a sense of dread creeping up his spine. “You think he knows?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said helplessly, “I don’t...think he does. But I have no doubt he suspects...something. I mean, he—he almost caught you in my office that one day. He looked _right_ where I’d hidden you, Jon.”

“But he hasn’t...said anything outright?”

“No, but...” Martin’s expression twisted in worry, and he looked down at Jon’s hands in his own with an intensity, like they held all the answers. “If he does know...”

“Martin?” Jon prompted, after Martin didn’t say anything else. It seemed to draw him from that distant worry for a moment, dragging him back from every horrible outcome he must have been imagining. “We’ll...we’ll deal with it. Alright? I’m not going to let him hurt you again.”

“Jon,” Martin sighed. “It’s not _me_ I’m worried about,” he said pointedly. “Peter...he’s _dangerous._ I’ve seen him send a whole room of people to the Lonely simply because he wanted the room to himself. He doesn’t care about anything except the things that are his.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” Jon told him, and in that moment, he wasn’t. He’d confront Lukas a thousand times over if it meant never seeing that look on Martin’s face, too close to fear for comfort. “There are ways to get rid of avatars, Martin. Daisy’s done it before.”

Martin went carefully still, his eyes dropping somewhere around Jon’s collar. “You’re going to kill him?” he asked, tonelessly.

Jon paused, staring at him, trying to tamp down the sudden, ugly curl of jealousy in his chest. “I don’t see how we have many other options,” he said, carefully, managing his tone. “Unless you think he has a surprising capacity for forgiveness?”

Even though he didn’t mean to let it come out sharp, Martin still winced at that, just slightly. Immediately, Jon felt awful. “I...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Martin said, swallowing dryly. “No, you’re right. Peter...” a twisted, self-deprecating smile flashed on his face for a moment, and he said, lowly, “Peter doesn’t really like to share. I don’t see how this could end any other way.”

Jon studied his expression with concern. He still looked so...distraught. “Hey,” Jon said, softly, brushing a hand over his cheek, drawing his eyes, “it’ll be alright. Okay?”

Martin placed a hand over his, his fingers curling to hold it there, for a moment. “Okay,” he breathed. 

Jon looked at him, his brow furrowed, when the Eye let him know Martin’s heart was still thumping a bit too fast. “Is there anything else?” he asked softly. “Anything you’re worried about?”

When Martin looked up at him, he just looked, for a moment, his eyes roaming over Jon’s face as if he meant to catalogue it. “No,” he murmured, and the moment passed. “I’m just tired.”

* * *

There was a woman chased by darkness. It resided in the corners, almost out of sight, right in her periphery. Always following, always drawing the slightest bit closer with every step, and yet never reaching her. 

A prick and a flood to her veins would have them blurring, dissolving away as if they were truly just creatures of her imagination. And she would float in that haze, content, knowing they could not reach her there. 

But they were always there. Waiting. Lingering, until the moment her vision lost the blurry haze, and reality crisped at the edges, with its too harsh shadows. 

Only...this time, it wasn’t just the shadows. 

The man with too many eyes watched her, impassive, uncaring. 

* * *

Jon woke, heaving a great breath out of the nightmare, his trembling hand pressing over his chest. It took a moment for him to feel anything past the ghost of satisfaction, the memory of a filling meal. 

When he did, he felt sick. His breath caught in his throat, his stomach plummeted. He lurched out of the bed, displacing Martin’s arm as he stumbled onto the carpet. He heard Martin’s confused, sleep-rough voice call after him, but only distantly. He felt as though the ground spun away from him as he walked.

His socked feet slipped on the tile, and he steadied himself against the counter, hanging his head. When he closed his eyes, his dream flashed against the backs of his eyelids, with its stark, unyielding shadows. 

He thought of Eve, thrashing awake from a nightmare in the same moment, across London.

How had he ever thought things could be different? 

With trembling hands, he opened a cabinet, grabbing a glass and turning on the tap, but his hands were shaking so much the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered against the tile. “Fuck,” he hissed, stooping down to clean it up, rearing back when one of the edges sliced open his finger. “ _Fuck!”_

A gentle hand entered his field of vision, taking his hand and pressing a towel against the cut. Jon took a shaking breath, slumping against the cabinets below the sink. When he met Martin’s eyes, there was a careful question in them, and more gentle concern than he knew what to do with. 

Jon looked at the collar of his sleep-shirt, where it stretched just below the collarbone, and whispered, “it didn’t work.”

“The nightmares?” Martin clarified, after a moment.

Wordlessly, Jon nodded, his throat thick. 

Martin studied his face, his hand still a gentle pressure over Jon’s, even though he was sure the small cut had already healed over. “Tell me about it,” Martin said.

Jon scoffed, an ugly, curl of frustration and exhaustion in the sound. “I don’t really want to talk about it, Martin—”

“Jon,” Martin said pointedly, his free hand lighting on the side of his face, guiding him to look, “tell me about it, so I can find it and wipe it away.”

Jon stared at him, speechless for a moment. “You...” He cut off, momentarily struck by the absurd rush of gratitude and the perplexing urge to deny the offer. “I-I can’t ask you to do that every time I feed, Martin—” he tried to reason.

“You don’t have to ask me,” Martin countered, raising a brow. “I want to.”

Jon looked at the calm, determined slant to his expression. Something pressed at the insides of his ribs, something large and warm that took his breath away. “Why?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Martin blinked at him, his brow furrowing. “Jon,” he murmured. “Surely you know I’d do anything for you?”

Whatever Jon would have said in reply was caught in the sudden thickness of his throat. “You...?”

Martin’s thumb brushed over his cheek, sending sparks across his skin. His eyes lingered tenderly on every feature of Jon’s face. “I do love you, you know,” Martin said, so softly it tore at Jon’s chest. “With as much strength of feeling as I have left. It’s all for you.”

“Oh,” Jon breathed, the sound leaving him without his express permission. He hadn’t thought he’d needed to hear it, had been content without it. 

But it was a different kind of dizzy contentment to hear it said aloud. 

“Let me help you, love,” Martin murmured.

And so, Jon told him about the statement, so Martin could find the memory and smooth the details away.

He slept soundly through the rest of the night, with Martin’s arms around him.

* * *

Entering the Institute the next day, it was abruptly clear something had happened. Daisy found him almost immediately, her arm wrapping around his. “Where have you been?” she hissed.

Jon stared at her, bemused. “I—the Tube was down, I had to—”

“Basira’s been looking for you,” she said. “Something about a ritual.”

Jon went, abruptly, cold. “What?” he breathed. Then, with dread, “already?”

“Come on,” Daisy said, and as Jon followed her, he could only think of the procession to Yarmouth, Tim’s grim expression, the muted sounds of snowfall hitting the windows as they drove.

When they entered the bullpen, Basira was packing a bag. She looked up at their entry, and tossed him the empty one beside her. Thankfully, Daisy caught it before it could hit him smack in the face, with how slowly he was processing things. 

“Pack,” Basira said, “now. We leave early tomorrow.”

“Wh-what?” Jon breathed, looking from Daisy’s grim face to Basira’s. “What’s going on?”

“Paid a visit to the former Head of the Institute,” Basira said lowly. “He was withholding a lovely piece of information until the last minute. Ny-Ålesund,” Basira said, as the ground spun away from him, “You and I are going. The Dark’s trying for a ritual. Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😏😏 uh ohhhh


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes if you’d like warnings

Jon drifted through the archive in a daze. He knew where he was going, of course. It was almost automatic, to follow that blip of personhood, that lonely outline that nearly felt like nothingness entirely. Jon had learned to look out for it by now. What had first seemed like an alien, cold presence when he had first thought to look for it now felt grounding, almost magnetizing, like Jon would always find his way to him no matter how far he went. 

Martin wasn’t in the office he’d taken up in, but instead was frowning up at the stacks further in the archive when Jon found him.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin said, giving him a quick, distracted smile and reaching out a hand. Jon took it on autopilot, watching their fingers intertwine. “I was trying to find the follow-up Research had done on the Judith O’Neil statement, but it wasn’t with the original file. Do you know where...?” Martin paused, after glancing at him sideways, and then looked at him more closely. “Jon?”

Jon shook himself from the haze of his thoughts, all circling around the last ritual, the Unknowing, how so much had gone wrong even after they’d actually had the time to prepare. He met Martin’s eyes—concerned, under furrowed brows, searching his face. “I have to go,” Jon found himself saying, the words punched out of him like a sigh.

Martin blinked, frown deepening. “What do you...? It shouldn’t take long to find the rest of the file, if that’s what—”

“No,” Jon interrupted, screwing his eyes shut for a moment. “No, that’s not what I...there’s a ritual,” he explained, watching as the confusion on Martin’s face gave way to a serious intensity. “A Dark ritual, they—they’re going to attempt it tomorrow. Basira and I, we—we have to go.”

Martin stared at him, that furrow in his brow getting deeper. “What? No that...that doesn’t make sense. Their ritual already failed.”

Jon faltered, a confused frown furrowing his brow. “What?”

“I remember Peter was concerned about it,” Martin said, slowly, eyes distant as he tried to recall it, “it’s all anyone seemed to be concerned about, that someone else might attempt a ritual before them. But the Dark...they’d been working at it for centuries. And it was supposed to culminate in something they called the Dark Sun. Something like...five? Maybe six years ago.” Martin met his eyes levelly. “Only nothing happened. There were rumors that Gertrude Robinson had done something to stop it, but no one was ever sure.”

Jon absorbed the new information, taking a moment to think on how something didn’t feel quite...right about all this. “Still,” he said, after a moment, “even if...even if it’s not a ritual, _something_ is happening at Ny-Ålesund. And whatever it is, I want to know about it.”

Martin frowned at him. “Why?”

“What—what do you mean _why?_ Because, if—if there’s a chance the People’s Church are trying for a ritual, or—or gearing up for another one, _someone_ needs to be there to stop them.”

“Why does it have to be _you_ though?” Martin asked, genuinely looking as though he didn’t understand.

“Why—because, Martin, we—we can’t just sit here and wait and hope the world doesn’t end tomorrow! We know there’s something happening, so we have to—”

“Who told you about it?” Martin asked, the furrow in his brow disappearing as he looked at him. 

Jon sighed roughly, feeling a creeping frustration despite himself. He didn’t think explaining the _why_ of his leaving would be the most difficult part. “Elias told Basira,” he answered shortly. “Earlier today.”

“So why doesn’t he go?” Martin pointed out calmly.

“I don’t know, maybe because he’s _in prison—_ ”

“Jon,” Martin interjected, looking at him pointedly, “you really think he’s staying there because...what? You’ve all trapped him? Out-smarted him?”

“ _Don’t,”_ Jon snapped, “condescend to me. I _know_ he didn’t expect us to turn on him, and I frankly don’t see why you’re harping on this—”

“Because Jon! Maybe he didn’t expect you all _sending_ him to prison, but I can guarantee you there is nothing keeping him there. If he were truly worried about the Dark, he would be dealing with it himself like Peter is with the Extinction—”

“Oh, like _Peter_ is,” Jon couldn’t help but snap. “Like he’s such a _saint—”_

 _“_ That is _not_ what I meant, Jon,” Martin said coldly, pulling his hand from Jon’s. The absence of it stung, underneath the frustration, but it was buried deep, so much Jon barely noticed it. “The only reason Peter concerns himself with other rituals is to ensure he still has time to make the world itself Lonely. So perhaps you should be more speculative of _Elias Bouchard’s_ motives, given what he is—”

“You think I’m not?! I don’t trust Elias as far as I can throw him, but I’m not about to let—wait,” Jon paused, frowning at him. At the strange emphasis he placed on Elias’ name. “What do you mean, ‘given what he is?’”

“What do you mean ‘what do I mean?’” Martin shot back acidly. “You should know how dangerous he is, even Peter’s afraid of him, as much as he’s afraid of anything anymore. Sometimes I think he’d burn Jonah’s body himself if he wasn’t allied with him—”

“ _What?”_ Jon blurted, his thoughts catching like a record needle snagging. _Jonah. Jonah, Jonah._ “What—what are you talking about?”

Martin opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, seeing something in Jon’s expression. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, you didn’t know.”

Jon distantly reached out a hand, settling it on a shelf to steady himself. “Didn’t know what?” he asked, each word pointed, weighted. 

At that point, Jon expected Martin’s answer. For some reason, that didn’t make the realization settle in any easier, when Martin said, almost gently as if to soften the blow, “Elias Bouchard is Jonah Magnus.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. For the feeling of dull incredulity to give way to a creeping sense of awful horror and foreboding, because what did that even _mean?_ And suddenly, because he was desperately casting out for the knowledge, he knew. The Eye lovingly told him _exactly_ what Jonah Magnus had done to achieve his manufactured immortality. 

Jon felt sick. Martin’s hand reached toward him and Jon automatically lurched away from it. Why hadn't Martin ever...? How could... “What else have you been hiding from me?” he accused thoughtlessly.

Martin’s expression went utterly still. His brows slowly furrowed, and his eyes narrowed. “ _Hiding_ from you?”

“Yes! Any other earth shattering revelations you’d like to share? How about why Lukas is really here, if Eli—Jonah could just walk out of prison whenever he wants? Why would he let Lukas run the Institute?”

“I don’t know!” Martin shot back, “Peter didn’t even _want_ to at first, it took the Extinction statements to sway him. Like this was the last place he wanted to be.”

“Didn’t take him too long to settle in, though,” Jon pointed out, something ugly and sharp in his tone, in the pit of his stomach, “Did it? Vanishing all those people from Research—”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Jon! Do you want me to apologize on his behalf? Christ, I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to send _you_ to the Lonely just to make a—” Martin cut off then, so abruptly it almost gave Jon whiplash. Martin’s brow furrowed, his mouth opening but nothing coming out.

“What?” Jon asked, after a moment in which Martin just looked quietly contemplative. 

“After...after he almost found us,” Martin said slowly, as if he was just working it out himself. “He asked if I’d ever sent you to the Lonely. And I said no. And he just said, _good._ Almost relieved.”

Jon stared at him, helplessly confused. “ _Why?”_

“I don’t know,” Martin murmured, brows drawn together, eyes distant. 

“Oh, _Peter_ didn’t tell you?” Jon snapped unthinkingly, hating the words even as they came out of his mouth. 

Martin’s expression went blank, his eyes cold. It deflated that shameful part of Jon that just wanted to lash out, to protect against his own helpless confusion. He opened his mouth, searching for something to say, then closed it, pressing his palms to his eyes and letting out a sigh. The frantic suspicion bled out of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured, after a moment. “I didn’t...I didn’t mean to snap. Or—or imply that you’d...” he sighed again, scrubbing his hands down his face, wishing his brain wouldn’t catch on the worst possible outcomes he could think of. He met Martin’s eyes, which still looked a little closed off. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

After a tense moment, Martin let out a sigh of his own, the line of his shoulders relaxing. He took a step closer, reaching out a hand, and Jon took it without hesitation. It had a comforting, familiar weight to it, the palm broad, cool. Martin’s eyes were on their entwined fingers. “I’ve never lied to you, Jon,” he said softly.

“I know,” Jon rushed to assure, “I-I know, I’m...I’m sorry I said...” He closed his eyes, searching for the right words. “I suppose...it’s always been difficult for me to...to trust. And this...this was a lot that I didn’t know.”

“If I’d known you didn’t know, Jon, I would have—”

“I know,” Jon told him, told _himself,_ meeting Martin’s eyes determinedly. He trusted Martin. He did. He _loved_ him. “I know that, I-I just...lost sense of what I knew and what I didn’t for a moment. I’m sorry.”

Martin’s expression softened, the tense lines around his eyes dissipating, the set of his mouth relaxing. His free hand reached up and brushed over Jon’s cheek. Jon leaned into the touch, into the comfort of it, his hand covering Martin’s. “It’s alright,” Martin murmured. 

“Is it?” Jon couldn’t help but ask, searching his expression. He didn’t see any traces of that cold blankness, but Martin’s expression was instead pensive, as if caught on a far away thought.

Martin glanced back at him, his head tilting, and he admitted, almost sounding confused, “I felt...there was this sharp, unpleasant jolt in my stomach when you...” Martin’s brow furrowed. “I think I felt _upset.”_

Jon blinked at him, surprised. “You...? Does that...usually happen, after enough time’s passed after feeding?”

Martin opened his mouth to answer, but he suddenly went stiff, pulling away from Jon as if burned, his eyes wide, panicked. Jon had only seen that look on his face once before. 

“No,” a voice that was neither of theirs said, low and displeased and cold, “no, that’s not supposed to happen, Martin.”

Jon just registered the foggy outline of Peter Lukas, stepping through an opening in the Lonely behind Martin, when Martin’s hands were again on him, wrapping around him, and then wind whipped at him, and the cold was so all encompassing he could barely breathe without it stinging his lungs. Jon tried to speak, ask what was happening, but the icy wind stole any words from his throat and left nothing but a gasping, weak breath. 

And then it was over. The winds stopped, Martin’s arms retreated, and they were in a different place. Martin’s office. Jon leaned back against a wall that had not been there moments ago, reeling. “What?” he tried to ask, but it came out thin, breathy. 

He dimly registered Martin's hands trembling where they cupped his face. “Jon,” Martin said, eyes wide, “just...just keep quiet. Okay? Just—I-I’ll handle this, just—”

“Martin,” Jon gasped, reaching for him, but Martin pulled away and through a wall of clouded, opaque air. 

And Lukas was stepping into the room through a cloudy gap in reality. “Honestly, Martin,” the man said, his eyes utterly disconnected from his bone-white, condescending smile. “This is childish.”

Martin didn’t bother to answer. Merely stared back at him, eyes as cold as Jon had ever seen them. 

It didn’t stop Lukas’ approach toward him, with slow, stalking steps. The fog followed him, whipping at his back. Jon had never thought of Martin as small before, but next to Lukas, who towered well over six feet, he looked it. 

“Where is he?” Lukas asked, his voice almost light. It was a stark contrast to the look in his eyes. 

“Why are you here, Peter?” Martin asked, trying to redirect. He took a step back from Peter’s approach, toward the opposite wall. Away from Jon. “If...if you want to feed again—“

Lukas suddenly moved, the fog wrapping around him, taking him faster than his legs could have. Jon blinked and Lukas had Martin against the wall, a huge hand around his throat. Lukas sighed, tilting his head and looking at Martin disappointedly, ignoring entirely the way Martin’s fingers dug into his arm.

Jon tried to take a step forward, but the cloudy barrier reached out with tendrils of fog and pushed back. Jon watched, fury and helplessness sitting at the pit of his stomach. 

“Pet—“ Martin tried to say, but a step forward from Lukas and a slight increase in pressure had him cutting off, mouth working silently as he tried to breathe. 

“It’s such a shame,” Lukas said, almost as if to himself. “I should have intervened earlier, but I thought you might...see the error in what you were doing. You’ve let him undo so much of your progress.” Lukas trailed the back of a finger against the side of Martin’s face, not seeming to care that Martin leaned away from the touch. “I simply can’t let that stand any longer.”

Martin glared at him, visibly gritting his teeth. “Now,” Lukas said softly, dangerously light, “I’ll ask once more. Where is—”

Martin spit in his face, cutting him off. 

Jon watched, heart in his throat and breath caught in his chest, as Lukas sighed. And without any other warning, Lukas’ free hand reared back and struck Martin hard, sending him to the ground with an awful crack. Jon wasn’t sure if the sound was the initial strike or the sound of Martin’s head hitting the ground. All he knew was as soon as it happened, a wave of fury took him over completely, and as he watched the Lonely barrier bled away, a hole burning through it as if with sheer heat. 

As soon as it was out of his way, Jon crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside Martin, his hands fluttering over him, brushing through his hair, running over his shoulder, taking his hand where he reached out, still gasping for air around an aching throat.

“Ah,” Lukas said above him, his voice low and pleased. “There you are.”

Martin’s hand tightened in his, and he rasped out a warning, “Jon,” but all Jon could think of was the bright patch of red blooming on Martin’s cheek, and the matching marks around his throat, and the small cut at his temple from where he’d hit the unforgiving floor. 

He whirled around, meeting Lukas’ eyes, and he felt—

He felt, abruptly, cold. So very cold. His limbs far away, numb, physical feeling frozen over. He’d...he’d been holding someone’s hand, hadn’t he?

...Whose? He searched for the knowledge, but he couldn’t pin it down. It was like smoke, dissipating through his fingers as soon as he thought he’d caught it. He breathed and the cold stung his lungs, crawling inside him, hollowing him from the inside out. 

Had he ever felt warm? 

He couldn’t recall. He was so alone and so very cold. He hadn’t always been, had he?

But no, of course he’d been. Didn’t he remember? Alone every step of the way. A flash of his parents’ funeral, such a hazy memory it was almost fabricated. Then, gone. 

Then, his grandmother’s distant looks of disapproval, and then her face in the casket. 

Then Sasha, distant, gone.

Then Tim, distant, gone.

Then Georgie and Melanie and Basira—

Suddenly, through the fog, he felt arms wrapped around him, one around his middle and one cradling his head, running through his hair. There was something warmer than the oppressive cold pressed against his back. 

“Please,” he heard distantly, a desperate, rasping, achingly familiar voice. “Please, Peter, stop. Please—”

“Martin,” another voice said, low, deceptively soft, “I’m only doing this for you, you know.”

“Peter—”

“Our kind are not meant to feel,” the second voice said, and it would have almost sounded pitying, if the words weren’t so flat. “You think you...what?” A scoff. “ _Love_ him? Do you even remember what love is, anymore?”

“Stop,” the first voice came again, weaker, shaky. 

It made him ache to hear it sound like that. He knew that voice. He needed to get back to it. 

Slowly, Jon began to fight his way back to the warmth that waited for him. 

“You can’t give him what he needs,” the second voice said, matter-of-factly, “as much as he can’t give you what you need. Haven’t you felt it? The Lonely’s embrace leaving you bit by bit? You can’t stay with him, Martin. You’re not made for it anymore.”

There was an aching silence. A tightening of the arms around him for a moment. Then, the first voice—so familiar it hurt, why couldn’t he remember whose it was?—said, “please, Peter. You don’t...you don’t actually want to have to send him to the Lonely, do you? You...you said it was good that I hadn’t.”

There was a brief, considering silence. Then, the second voice, the one that filled Jon with a spiteful hate, “it would be unfortunate, if I had to do part of Jonah’s job for him.”

The distant movement of a hand through Jon’s hair stopped. “What do you—?”

“Do you really think now is a good time for questions, Martin?” the second voice asked dangerously.

A cold hand clamped down on Jon’s leg, but he was still so far away he barely felt it. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin breathed, “I’m—I’m sorry, Peter, just...” A brief pause, then, frantic, “what if—what if I went back to the Tundra? For good.”

 _No,_ Jon thought, fighting to claw his way back to reality, to warmth. To Martin. _No, no, no—_

There was a considering silence. 

“I’m sure one of the other crew members could take up the work here,” Martin continued, a note of quiet desperation in his voice. “I’ll...I’ll go back with you, it’ll be...” Martin swallowed audibly. “It’ll be just like before,” he said.

The second voice— _Lukas,_ Jon remembered, with a flood of burning fury—hummed. “And in exchange, I let him go. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Martin breathed. His arms around Jon tightened. Jon could feel them trembling. “Please, Peter.”

Lukas hummed again, and when he spoke he sounded disgustingly pleased. “To take you when you craved the embrace of another, and yet could never have him again...” Distantly, Jon felt the temperature in the room drop, and could imagine the Lonely’s fog curling around him temptingly. “You do drive a hard bargain.”

“So?” Martin asked shakily. “Will you...?”

“Fine,” Lukas said, shortly. “We’re going now.”

_No._

“Now?” Martin repeated, distantly.

_NO._

Martin’s fingers brushed over the side of Jon’s face, trembling. “But—“

Lukas laughed then. “You think I’d let you say goodbye? Oh, darling, that would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? He’ll be fine once we leave. Come on.”

Martin didn’t move for a moment, and all Jon could think through the cloying fog was _no, no, no, no._

_Don’t go._

_Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow._

_Please._

Martin’s hand drifted over his cheek, his fingers running through his hair. Jon felt his breath ghost over his forehead, and then Martin was pressing a kiss to his hairline. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, his voice sounding almost caught in his throat. 

_No._

“I love you,” Martin whispered, choked. 

Lukas sighed. “Oh, Martin—”

“I do,” Martin murmured, only to him. His fingers brushed gently through Jon’s hair. A hand slipped into his own, slack, numb. Martin’s thumb trailed over his knuckles. “I love you with every breath I take. I can feel it. I wish I could stay, and—” His voice cut off then, and when it returned it was trembling. “And I wish I could love you like you deserve.” 

_No,_ Jon thought, dragging his way through the fog. He could see a figure through the haze.

Martin began to pull away. 

“ ** _No,_** ” he said, and the fog cleared. 

And he saw Peter Lukas look at him from where he was crouched before them, eyes widening. When their eyes met, that wave of cold and fog threatened to take him over, but Jon held fast to his fury and his hate. He took the cold and fog and sent it right back, let Lukas feel all of it. Kept him pinned there, under Jon’s gaze.

Lukas reared back, going pale. “What—?” he gasped out.

Jon looked at him, and saw every little facet of his life, every frantic thought that flew through his head, thoughts tinged with fear like _how_ and _what_ and _wait._

“ ** _I can see you,_** ” Jon told him.

Lukas’ expression was strained as he looked back at him, wide-eyed, as if he physically could not look away. “You—“

“ ** _What did you mean,_** ” Jon asked, head tilting, “ ** _when you said ‘do Jonah’s job for him?’_** ”

Lukas’ expression twitched as he fought the reply, slowly trying to drag its way out of his throat. “You’re...making...a mistake,” Lukas said, pained, forcing his own words out of his mouth like teeth.

“ ** _Answer the_** _ **question** ,_” Jon pressed. 

“Jon...” Martin said from behind him, but it sounded distant. 

Lukas laughed, a strange gurgling sound as he still resisted. Static clung to the edges of him and dug in, flickering. Blood welled up in his throat and stained his perfect teeth. “You think...he’ll survive...without me?” Lukas asked, through grit teeth, with fever bright eyes. “I... _made..._ him.”

“ ** _ANSWER ME_** **,** ” Jon snarled, his vision tunneling, static swimming in his head, “ ** _OR LET IT RIP YOU APART._** ”

But Lukas just laughed, even as the static ate at the edges of him. Jon grit his teeth and pulled harder at the static, and finally the smile dropped from Lukas’ face. His mouth opened in a scream as the static wiped him away, as the Eye feasted on every bit of him until nothing was unseen, nothing unknown. Everything laid bare. 

And then Peter Lukas was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Lukas is physically and emotionally abusive to Martin in this chapter. He chokes him, and strikes him in terms of the physical violence. Emotionally he pokes at Martin’s feelings for Jon, claims they aren’t real, etc. 
> 
> so....everything's fine now
> 
> .....right?
> 
> 😀😀


End file.
